Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
by LilithiaWR
Summary: "I am NOT training some kid." Natasha stated stubbornly. "Tash... she's one of the last survivors of the Black Widow program." The look in the girl's eyes was cold and ruthless, simmering with a rage all too familiar. If she was anything like Natasha had been, she wasn't just lost in the dark - she was drowning in it, her ledger dripping red. Rated for language and violence.
1. Chapter Prologue: Shipwrecked

**Hello everyone! This is my first time writing for the Avengers fandom (or any comic-based fandom), so please be kind and leave a review!**

 **Yes, another OC story. I know that I'm busy with _Down Came Heaven_ , but this particular plot bunny would not be ignored.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING (but the plot!)**

* * *

 _Another day shipwrecked,_

 _Can you hear my prayer?_

 _If you have the answer let me know._

 _Stolen from another life,_

 _They appeared in mine._

 _It doesn't feel the same as it did before._

* * *

Her first real memory begins with a white ceiling and a metal room. She's lying on a stretcher, or something similar - she wasn't sure. The florescent lights blinded her, the air was crisp and sterile, and her muscles were on fire.

Her limbs are heavy, stiff, and she doesn't think she could move even if she tried. She's saved the trouble, however, when she shifts and feels metal dig into her wrists and ankles. Head throbbing, she is surprised that her neck doesn't creak like a rusty hinge as she struggles to glance down at herself.  
For some reason, she's surprised to see herself in a hospital gown. Pushing such thoughts aside, she moves her limbs again, the solid metal cuffs unmoving. She hears footsteps approach the door of the room, and it swings open to reveal an expressionless man dressed as a doctor, holding a clipboard on one hand, his eyes glued to the page as he purses his lips.

"Subject 117. You're alive." He greets her with a voice devoid of feeling. It grates on her nerves, his eyes empty as he regards her with a calculating curiosity, as if she were a specimen to be dissected.

* * *

After that the memories blur together. She gathers that she is young - her voice is high, her mind is empty and waiting to be filled, and her shoulders reach the same height as a man's hips. She finds herself in some sort of classroom, where her peers are all young girls her age, varying in height, weight, and appearance. But they all have the same thirst for knowledge, eyes bright with intelligence and chilled by calculation.

They are taught to be organized, efficient, educated and well-mannered. Think first, act after. She is taught how to act and sing and dance. Her etiquette is on par with royalty, her knowledge of politics and history enough to charm the pants off of politicians. They study people as one might study a particularly intelligent animal species: patterns, behaviors, social cues, needs and desires.

They dissect a human body. 'Men are but flesh and bone' The Madame tells them. And not knowing any better, the girls poke and prod the corpse, a few of them squeamish, but overall they see it as just another lesson to be completed. They carve up the flesh of the body like ham at the dinner table, the scalpels flashing ominously between short, thin fingers; little hands belaying their purpose.

She is 12 when she first takes a life.

Her handlers made it easy. She entered a room, empty save for a lone chair in the middle, upon which sat the trembling figure of a man. There is a black bag over his head, ropes bind him to the chair, and his clothes are tattered and smell of blood. The Madame stands behind him, her expression stern and cold. Her teacher makes eyes contact with her, then reaches out and yanks the hood off of the man's head.

The woman's heels clack loudly against the wooden floorboards as she walks over to stand behind her, the sound making the trembling man jump and the ropes strain against his movement. He is muttering pleas and prayers, but they are ignored.

The Madame hands her the pistol, just a small little thing that still manages to dwarf her hand and make her grip appear clumsy. But by now she is familiar with how to hold such weapons, adjusting her grip so that the weight of the metal sits comfortably in her palm, cupping the butt of the gun with her off-hand to steady her trajectory.

She takes aim and cocks the gun. The man across the room whimpers. Seeing The Madame nod out of the corner of her eye, she focuses on her target and pulls the trigger without another watches in morbid fascination as a hole appears in his forehead while the back of his head explodes, blood spraying forth like a broken pipline. Madame pats her on the shoulder, and it's the first time she remembers her lips curling up into a smile.

Once again the years blur together, her only companions being the other girls and their quiet yet intense comradery. Where other girls their age wore push up bras and slapped on makeup, they learned how to sharpen blades and clean their guns. Instead of clumsy teenage romances, they were taught the art of seduction, to separate their emotions from intimacy. People were pawns to be played, everyone became a puppet once one found which strings to pull.

That's all they were – Things. Flesh and bone. Everyone was just a cog in the machine that was society. The useless were discarded, the weak culled. They were all but tools to be used.

 _She_ was a tool.

And her targets were nothing more than a mission to be completed - and she completed many.

* * *

Everything changed when civil conflict erupted within the Russian bureaucracy. New age extremists purged the government of the old war hawks that continued to hold on to the Cold War mindset, dug up all of their dirty little secrets, and scrapped the programs that they deemed dangerous or unnecessary.

The Black Widow program was considered both.

The new government did not just cut their funding, however. The Black Widow agents were too dangerous, knew too many secrets; had spilled too much blood. There was hardly a country in the world which had not lost a politician to the hands of a Black Widow assassin. If word got out if their origins, Russia would come under fire.

And so they decided to wipe them out.

The Black Widow base is ambushed late at night. All of the girls are tucked into their beds, set in rows in a collective dorm. The building looks like an abandoned factory on the outside, its interior just as much. It is the sum of their lives: blank concrete walls, thin white sheets, and uniform sleeping gowns.

All is silent… until the building explodes with a _bang!_

She remembers screams and flames and the sound of bullets littering the halls. With veteran efficiency the girls grab their pistols from beneath their pillows and fall into formation.

When they realize that the soldiers firing at them are Russian, they know that they must escape. She remembers someone cursing when they realize they have been betrayed. She remembers running as the smoke fills her lungs.  
The air smells of gasoline and burning flesh.

There are large male figures rushing through the flames, faces hidden by oxygen masks.

She needs to run.

She needs to escape.

But all of the exits are blocked or guarded by a troupe of armed men.

One girl falls, a shot to her eye and she's dead.

Another goes down, her torso riddled with bullets.

They go down one by one.

Flesh and bone.

Just things to be used and discarded.

She jumps over the corpses of her sisters. She doesn't dare to glance at their faces.

She feels something stinging on her arm, and idly pats down her sleeve which had caught aflame.

Run.

Hide.

They're coming.

The sound of boots and angry voices seem to fill every corridor that she attempts to turn to. They were coming from all sides. There's a shout, and she knows that she's been spotted.

Run.

Run.

Run.

Her feet are bare and bleeding, and she curses the trail of bloody footprints that follow her. The shouting increases behind her, and then she's under fire. She has one gun, and she tries to shoot behind her, but it's blind and uncoordinated.

Her mouth tastes like ash and her lungs burn.

There was no way out.

Except –there!

She uses a tipped table to boost herself up and uncovers a vent on the wall near the ceiling and hauls her body upwards. The vent is cramped and filled with smoke, but she goes forward. The men are shouting behind her again, and she turns a corner into another vent just as someone sticks their gun into the opening and begins shooting.

Run.

Run.

Run.

So she does.  
And she never stops running.

* * *

 **This is just a drabble for now. I'm putting this out there to see how people like it. If I get some good feedback, I'll update. I haven't actually planned very far ahead for this story.**

 **So leave a review if you want to see more!**


	2. Chapter 1: Foxtrot

**I DON'T OWN ANYTHING**

* * *

 **Vienna, Austria – 20:04**

Johann Chaknesov had many enemies. He was a man whose world revolved around money and secrets, who had slipped Interpol so many times it was like second nature to him.

He walked through the street with more confidence than one would expect in a wanted man, wearing a casual collared shirt and pressed khakis, with a pressed jacket slung over his shoulders, a plain beret casting a shadow over his eyes and a small messenger bag in hand. Johann had the type of face that was just average enough that no one could ever seem to focus one him – rounded cheeks, dark eyes, with a placid expression upon his face Average, average, average.

Walking up to a tall, fancy hotel with glass doors and gilded windows, he entered through the front and then continued towards the restaurant on his left. A polite hostess sat him down in the back, as per his request, with a solid wall behind him, the windows to his right, and a full view of the restaurant in front of him.

He noted that there were few figures loitering in the restaurant this early in the afternoon, most of them at the bar. Two men talking quietly, three more drinking by themselves, and one woman. He studied each of them, noting height and distinguishable features, who looked fit enough to be a fed and who might be hiding any weapons. More specifically, he focused on the woman, who was as mediocre as they came – just like him.

She was not dressed too fancy or too shabby, just a nice pair of jeans and what he guessed was a blouse, although it was hard to tell with the way her jacket draped over her petite frame. Her outfit lacked any color, just black and dark blue, the clothing loose for easy movement. Johann squinted as he tried to make out her features in the dim lighting of the bar, but she was seated in such a way that the lights were casting her face into shadow, and her bushy brown hair was an added obstacle. She was hunched over her drink, making it difficult to guess her height or body shape. Johann glanced at her hands, noting that her skin tone was dark… or maybe just tanned?

The woman picked up her tumbler and took another sip of amber liquid, lazily motioning the bar tender over. As the woman and the man conversed, Johann noted that his guest had finally arrived.

Another average-looking man walked into the restaurant, speaking to the hostess. This one was dressed smartly in a suit and tie, a pair of sunglasses glued to his face despite that they were inside a dim room. He had close-cropped hair, muscles slightly visible underneath the jacket and filling out his frame to make him seem taller than he really was.

The waitress led the man towards the back, where Johann was sitting. However, Johann's eyes were glued to the mysterious woman at the bar, and noted – with some disappointment – that she did not so much as twitch or turn her head as his guest crossed the restaurant behind her.

 _Were his instincts wrong?_

Johann hid his displeasure and smiled politely as his guest arrived at the table, sitting down wordlessly across from him. They both waited patiently as the waitress hurried over and listed the proffered specialties for the day as she sat down two glasses of water and asked if they would like any drinks.

Johann politely declined, while his partner softly asked for a glass of cabernet, deep voice rumbling in his chest. The waitress scurried back into the kitchens, and with one last glance around, Johann got down to business.

"Mister Stevenson," He began, speaking lowly. "How nice of you to come."

"How nice of you to have me." The man replied without missing a beat, both of them smiling with saturated sweetness that it was nearly sickening. "Shall we begin?"

Johann hesitated before he answered, glancing over to the bar, and noting – again with some confusion – that the woman he had been eyeing earlier was in the process of paying for her drink, handing cash over to the bar tender as she laughed softly at something he said. Again, much to Johann's frustration, he was unable to glimpse her face due to her wild hair and the glare of the lights, only watching with irritation as she walked towards the exit, head down as she fiddled with the buttons on her coat.

 _Perhaps he was wrong…_

Johann's gaze turned to the other patrons of the bar, but none of them triggered his instincts quite like the first woman had. But she hadn't stuck around to listen to the deal… so if she _was_ a spy, what was she after?

"Mister Chaknesov." Mr. Stevenson snapped in annoyance, leaning back as the waitress returned with his glass of wine. "Your attention please."

Johann quickly cleared such thoughts from his mind and focused on the negotiations at hand. "My apologies, Mister Stevenson. I was just checking for bugs."

The man across from him hummed, but whether it was in acceptance or ire, Johann did not know. He merely stared at Johann from behind his sunglasses as he began to sip on the cabernet.

"I assume your presence here means that you are willing to pay the price that I am asking." Mr. Stevenson clasped his hands together, fingers intertwined, and rested them on the table, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He gave Johann _the look_ , which he did to all of his customers, letting them know that his prices were non-negotiable. Any attempt to haggle the price would result in an immediate cancellation of the deal.

"Indeed." Johann nodded, retrieving a device from the inner pocket of his jacket and handing it over to Johann.

It was a small tablet, one specifically designed by international banking firms for their larger clients to personally transfer money from the palm of their hands. Stevenson hid his satisfaction behind a stern look, accepting the tablet from Johann and noting that the amount of money that he had asked for was already filled in and ready to transfer.

Me. Stevenson entered the number to one of his off-shore accounts and signed the signature – with one of his other names of course. As he clicked 'ENTER', he used his foot to push the briefcase across the floor underneath the table and towards his client.

"The down-payment, please." Stevenson murmured softly.

"Right after I make sure that your product is the real deal." Johann replied smoothly as he swiped the briefcase up off the floor and set it in his lap. He clicked open the sides and lifted the lid, his eyes quickly scanning and verifying that everything he had asked for was contained there. He flipped through the pages, lips curling at their edges.

Then he snapped the case shut and looked back up to his partner. "Everything is accounted for."

Johann used his feet to push the briefcase further under his own seat as he leaned sideways and retrieved the messenger bag. He handed it off to Stevenson, the man unzipping it quickly, a smirk curling on his lips at the wads of cash that lay within.

"Very good, Mr. Chaknesov." Stevenson's face was unreadable behind his sunglasses. "The rest of the money will be transferred in the next 24 hours, I assume?"

Johann dipped his head.

"Then we are done here."

They shook hands over the table, and then Johann left first, knowing that Stevenson would wait for a few more moments before leaving himself.

Johann walked out into the hotel lobby, leather shoes tapping on the marble tiles, weaving his way through the neatly dressed guests as they meandered through the room, dodging designer luggage and rushing bell-boys. Towards the elevator, briefcase clasped firmly in his hand. The doors dinged open, and Johann stepped forward, quickly pressing one of the numbers.

"Oh! Hold it, _s'il vous plait_!"

A worried female voice called out, and before Johann could press the button to close the doors, and small body slipped through the doors just as they shut. His lips pressed into a tight line in displeasure at the unwanted company.

He glanced over at the woman next to him and paused. Something was familiar about her…

"Monsieur Chaknesov." She murmured softly in greeting with a perfect French accent.

His hand flew to his waist, flipping up his jacket and reaching for his holster – but his arm was caught in a death grip as she grabbed his forearm and slammed her chest against his, pushing him against the wall of the elevator as it began to move. His left hand was still stubbornly holding onto the briefcase, but the way her body pressed against his in a mockery of intimacy kept him still. Her fingers dug harshly into his forearm with such strength that he knew that he would get bruises, her nails pricking the skin.

"I would not, if I were you." She murmured calmly, and Johann felt his holster suddenly relieved of his gun, which then seemed to disappear into her jacket.

"Believe it or not," The woman murmured, "I am here to help you."

Johann scoffed. "That's bullshit."

"My employers would rather the information you now hold not fall into the wrong hands." Johann felt her free hand tap his which clutched the briefcase. "And considering the fact that Mr. Stevenson went missing two days ago, they were quite concerned."

Johann froze.

"Strange, then, that he managed to show up to your meeting today, no?" The woman continued with a smug look that aggravated Johann.

"Then we are on the same side?" Johann questioned cautiously.

She hummed. "For now." She replied off-handedly. "Those that hired you to get the information are the same ones that hired me to protect it. So, yes. We are allied… at the moment."

Johann dipped his head and glared at her as he went nose-to-nose with the irritating woman. "Then let. Me. Go."

"Only if you promise to behave." She tutted teasingly.

He scowled and grunted some kind of affirmative noise that she took to mean 'yes'. The woman stepped back and Johann removed himself from the wall of the elevator, glancing down to make sure that the woman had not touched the briefcase.

"The man that you met was actually a federal agent of SHIELD." The woman began, all flirtatious attitude wiped form her expression as it schooled itself, her voice flat and serious. "My guess is that they killed or kidnapped the real Stevenson and sent an agent in to make contact with you, and then use you to track our employers."

Johann choked. "SHIELD?! _The_ SHIELD? Like from the alien invasion?"

She sent him an annoyed glance. "Yes. As I've already said." She said flatly.

The elevator dinged as they reached the top level, the box slowing and the doors sliding open. The woman reached over towards the briefcase. Johann drew back for a moment, staring at her suspiciously. She glared at him, making him freeze long enough for her to grab the briefcase and, with a flick of her wrist, and tiny little button was pulled off.

It was flashing with a dull red light. Johann gulped at the sight of the locator. Oh, his bosses would have been _pissed_ if she had not caught that thing.

"Here's the plan," She said as she practically dragged him out of the elevator and towards the room that he was staying in. "I'm going to be decoy and lead these goons on a wild chase across the rooftops. Meanwhile, you will take the real information and run it to a secured location using the alleys in the city."

"Why I should I trust you?" Johann growled.

"One, because you fell for their little trick." She snapped as she unlocked the door to his hotel room – wait, when did she get his key?!

"And two," She continued as she led him inside and grabbed an identical briefcase sitting on the coffee table, "Can _you_ jump over rooftops and fight off ten guys at once?"

Johann opened his mouth to protest –

"Didn't think so." She interrupted before he could speak. "Go retrieve whatever you might need of your belongings. You won't be able to come back to your room."

Johann hurried to the bedroom and grabbed his go-bag: several fake passports, IDs, credit cards, and an exorbitant amount of cash in several different currencies. Plus a few necessities such as a toothbrush and extra ammo.

"Wait, how do we know the information within the case is not compromised, now that the feds know?" Johann questioned as he re-entered the main room, eyeing her with increased suspicion.

She gave him a slow, Cheshire grin.

"Because, my dear," She chuckled as she stripped off her coat, revealing a black armored suit and two guns holstered at her side, with two more holstered at her back. "They knew that you would double-check the information. They risked giving us the _real_ data in order to make sure you fell for their trap. Which you did."

Johann glared at her for that.

 _Beep beep! Beep beep!_

Her head snapped down as her hand pulled out some sort of device.

"They're here." She stated, straightening as she grabbed one of the briefcases and shoved it into his hands. She handed him the gun that she had lifted off of him in the elevator, and Johann took it back eagerly.

She then pushed him towards the window. "Take the fire escape. Run until you get to the edge of Sacher Wien district. Men will be waiting to take you to safety. Don't get caught."

He turned to snap at her for ordering him around, but paused when he noticed that she was already climbing onto the railing of the fire escape and leaping across the alley towards the rooftop of the building next to them.

Then she was gone.

Johann didn't let himself dwell for long, and tore off down the fire escape. He reached the bottom of the stairs and ran out of the alley, glancing around for any agents before darting across the street into another alleyway. He was a few streets down from the hotel when he heard the tell-tale sounds of screeching tires on pavement and cursed.

The agents were on his tail. Weren't they supposed to be trailing the girl? He tossed his briefcase over a fence that split the alley, and grunted as he climbed over and jumped down. He paused when he saw another iron stairwell attached to the side of a building. He took a running start, leaping onto a dumpster and then jumping from the top of it to catch the bottom rung of the half-raised ladder.

 _Shit!_

The ladder creaked and slid a few inches at his sudden weight. Not willing to wait and see if it would hold him, Johann began to climb, crawling over the ledge and darting for the stairs.

The sound of military-grade engines were growing closer.

He was panting when he reached the rooftop, glancing around to see if he could catch sight of any other figures leaping from roof to roof. But the mysterious woman was nowhere in sight.

But there was no time to think, he needed to escape. Johann ran for the nearest roof, praying in his head as he leapt across and landed clumsily on the other side, cursing as his ankles throbbed with the impact.

"Halt!"

He whirled around with his gun out. _How did they find him so fast?_

Looking up, he noticed a dark figure emerge from the shadows holding… a bow?! Johann almost laughed out loud.

 _Who does this guy think he is, Robin Hood?_

"Put the gun down and hand over the briefcase." The man ordered, his grip on the bow remaining steady, his body armor telling Johann that this man was a professional. Somehow, Johann knew that he would not be able to shoot this man before he was killed by some stupid arrow.

Gritting his teeth, Johann reluctantly tossed the gun down and held up the briefcase towards the man. And that's when he saw it.

The locator.

 _That bitch!_ He snarled inwardly as he realized that he had been duped. He would bet all of his money that it was the decoy briefcase too, not the real one.

Johann looked back up at the archer with a snarl on his face, but the man was already swiping the case from his hands.

"Don't move." The archer ordered as he touched his earpiece and told the rest of his team where they were. The door to the building opened and two more agents spilled out, one confiscating the gun, the other coming up behind Johann.

"That bitch!" Johann hissed, still glaring at the briefcase and the flashing light of the locator, while the third agent came behind him and began to handcuff him.

The archer chuckled. "Actually, this would be mine." He plucked off the locator.

Johan looked up and sneered at the man. "Not _you._ " He hissed. "The woman that took the _real_ case with the _real_ information! You've caught the wrong man!"

The archer looked disturbed by this, and deftly knelt down to snap open the case.

The papers inside were blank.

"Fuck!" The archer exclaimed as his hand flew to his earpiece. "This is Hawkeye! We've got the wrong one! This was a decoy!"

Hand dropping from his ear, the man – Hawkeye – turned back to Johann and grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him close to glower down at him.

"Who has the real data?" Hawkeye demanded. "Described her!"

Johann opened his mouth to respond –

 _Crack!_

A bullet ripped through the side of his head, brain matter spraying out the other side.

"Sniper!" Hawkeye cried out as the agents fell to the floor, pulling out their weapons. He glanced down at the body.

"Dammit!" He hissed. There goes their witness. He looked back up, squinting his eyes to peer through the darkness, the city lights useless above roof-level.

 _There!_

Movement, just barely noticeable, but it was there. Someone was slithering across the rooftop about half a mile away. Hawkeye took off in a run, ignoring the cries of the other agents to wait for them, nearly flying across the rooftops in his haste to catch the small figure that was darting away with a briefcase in hand.

Hawkeye made a mental note of the trajectory of the bullet to the building where the team would be able to find the rifle that took the shot, but did not dare slow down to investigate now. He was catching up to the thief.

He unhooked his bow and, still running, began to fire shots at the figure, small little explosive bolts that would hopefully surprise her and slow them down just enough to give him the upper hand.

The arrows went off like fireworks in the night as they ignited just in front of the running figure. To the thief's credit, she did not flinch, although she did abruptly change direction. But Hawkeye was anticipating this, and shot a larger explosive bolt to cut off her escape.

" _Barton, what the hell are you doing?"_ Coulson's voice relayed from his earpiece. _"You can't use explosive bolts in civilian areas!"_

"I'm catching the thief!" Hawkeye snapped back between pants, catapulting over another rooftops and firing arrows around the thief, making a perimeter on the building's edges.

Just as the woman went to make their escape in a different direction, Hawkeye clicked a button on his bow, and an electric field leapt up. A female shriek cut through the air as she came into contact.

The figure leapt back and turned to face Hawkeye, dark eyes glaring at him over the cloth mask that hid the lower half of her face, the wind blowing her bangs across her face, while the rest of it appeared to be swept back into a French braid. She was shorter than he was expecting, but her bodysuit did nothing to hide the lean muscles on her frame.

The woman tossed the briefcase behind her and drew a pair of guns, falling into a fighting stance and aiming at his chest.

"I am obliged to ask you to surrender peacefully." Hawkeye spoke loud enough for her to hear him from across the rooftop. "But somehow I don't think that'll happen."

He heard her snort, but she did not answer in any other way.

"If you hand over the briefcase we can work something –whoa!"

 _Blam! Blam! Blam!_

She opened fire without preamble, and Hawkeye was forced to leap to the side and roll forward to hide behind an air duct.

" _Men."_ He heard her scoff under her breath in a low voice. _"Always wanna talk."_

He couldn't help but chuckle at that as he loaded an arrow. Popping out from behind the air duct, he fired and managed to knock one of the guns out of her hands, but she was already firing at him with the other pistol.

He flung himself forward with his usual recklessness, narrowly dodging bullets as he rushed towards her. When he went to kick the gun out of her hand, she was anticipating him, and she quickly dropped the pistol and grabbed his ankle in the same move. Hawkeye had a moment to feel surprise just before she used his momentum against him, jerking his leg forward and ducking underneath, sending the archer flying over her head.

He managed to land on his feet, but she was already coming at him with a hammer kick, Hawkeye rolling out of the way and feeling the air rush past his face with how close her foot came. They both leapt to their feet and went at each other again. A glint of steel was Hawkeye's only warning before he felt something catch on his armor.

 _Dammit. She has a knife_.

He threw up his bow just in time to catch her downward swing, the steel clashing and screeching as the blade grated on his poor baby. _Swing-swing, stab-stab, dodge!, swing-block, dodge!_

Hawkeye knew that he was going to start running out of energy soon, and need to end this. He caught her knife with his bow and attempted to maneuver it out of her hand, but she seemed to realize his technique and twisted her wrist. They both ended up losing their weapons, the knife flying out of her hand while she reached over with her other hand and somehow managed to yank his bow from his grip and throw it away from them.

He heard the woman huff at the loss of her blade, and then she pulled out _two more_ knives!

"Oh come on!" Hawkeye huffed as he began to dodge her, pulling a knife from his boot and attempting to survive her onslaught.

The battle seemed to go on forever. Every time Hawkeye managed to disarm her, she pulled out yet _another_ weapon that was somehow concealed on her small frame and came at him without any indication of slowing down.

Finally, after some minutes, the thief managed to run out of weapons, as Hawkeye had disarmed her of all of them, and the roof was littered with various knives, blades, hell even shuriken. But she wouldn't give up yet, and them they were fighting hand to hand combat.

" _Are you almost done?"_ Coulson's voice sounded in his ears, sounding bored and near exasperated.

Hawkeye dodged a combined punch and sidekick.

"I'm a little busy here!" He yelled back into the comms.

" _You're wasting time."_ Coulson sighed. _"Bring her in already."_

"I'm trying!" Hawkeye snapped, flipping backwards and then springing forward and tackling the girl. But she rolled them over and kicked him off, leaping back to her feet and kicking him in the gut, sending the agent flying into another air duct.

"This isn't easy, y'know!" Hawkeye used the air duct to push away from her. "She's really good!"

 _Almost as good as… wait._

Hawkeye felt his eyes widen as if clicked. He _knew_ her fighting style seemed familiar! Narrowing his eyes in disbelief, Hawkeye ran at the woman again, this time setting up an attack that only Natasha would know how to outmaneuver.

And the girl did.

He had always called it the 'roundabout', much to Natasha's annoyance. He set up the attack as he would for Natasha –punch high, low, round house – setting the girl off-balance. Then Hawkeye grabbed her, intending to fling her over his back, and just like Natasha –her shin slammed into the right side of Hawkeye's face, and then she twisted in the opposite direction, hanging upside down for barely a second as she brought her right leg up to snap both legs around his neck and, hands on the ground in a handstand, haul him forwards and slam him head-first into the ground.

All in the span of seconds.

 _Owww… Yeah, that's definitely a Black Widow move._

"Had enough?" He heard her asked from above, standing over him, panting through the mask around her face.

Now it was his turn to cheat.

" _Stoj_!" He cried in Russian. _Stop!_

She hesitated, just for a moment, and it was enough. Hawkeye slammed a taser into her thigh, and she gave a shout of anger before she collapsed forward, nearly landing on top of him.

Before she could get up, Hawkeye jumped onto her, straddling her back and yanking her arms behind her and handcuffing them. The whole time, she was spewing curses at him in several different languages, most of which he understood, the majority of them in Russian (to which he was very familiar with due to Natasha and her cranky temper). He helped her into a sitting position, dodging her biting and kicking the whole time, and then retrieved the _many_ weapons that had been scattered around the roof during their fight.

He then retrieved the briefcase and went to stand next to her, placing a hand on his earpiece. "Alright Coulson," He panted, "I got her."

" _Took you long enough."_

"Hey, don't get snippy with me!" Hawkeye growled. "You'll never guess what I just caught."

" _A thief?"_ Coulson drawled. _"Just get the goods and get back to the van, Barton."_

"No, Coulson." Hawkeye chuckled. Oh he wished that he could see Phil's face as he said this. "I just caught us another Black Widow."

The woman – well, girl really, now that he got a good look at her – on the ground jerked and turned her face upwards to stare at him. He could see the question in her eyes.

 _Another Black Widow? Another?_

Phil was quiet on the other side of the comm for a long time, before he finally heard a heavy sigh.

" _Shit."_

* * *

 **There it is folks. Our nameless heroine meets the SHIELD initiative for the first time.**

 **Please leave a review!**


	3. Chapter 2: Trickster

**Wow guys! I'm amazed at the amount of feedback I'm already getting for this story. It is certainly more than I was expecting when I first started this.**

 **This is a short chapter, but it's finals week and I'm very pressed for time. Writing is my stress outlet, but I don't have a lot of time to sit down and write 10 pages.**

 **Still, I like where this is going. I hope you guys do too!**

 **STANDARD DISCLAIMER THINGY**

* * *

 _So I will run until I each the end_

 _And who knows where I'll be_

 _For all this time_

 _And all the reasons that I cannot find_

* * *

She wouldn't stop glaring.

Some captives cursed at their captors, while others attempted to persuade their captors to let them go free, or just chattered on and on to annoy their captors. Still, others may choose to remain silent, plotting their escape or accepting their defeat.

Clint would have preferred any of these. But the girl just kept _glaring._

She hadn't said a word. She had not even tried to escape after he got his cuffs on her. Instead, she had complied easily to his commands and had stepped calmly into the back of an armored van and sat down on the bench attached to the side of the van. Then Clint attached a chain from her cuffs to a metal bar beneath the bench she sat on, as well as cuffing her ankles together. He was well aware of the feats of escape that Black Widows were capable of.

And the whole time, all she did was glare over the edge of her mask.

 _Damn, they must teach that at the Black Widow academy or something._ Clint thought, again eerily reminded of Natasha on a bad day.

Phil had joined them in the back of the van and attempted to get the girl to talk, but she wouldn't budge. She just glared at Clint, ignoring Phil as if the man did not even exist. The only time she spoke was when Phil went to pull down her mask, and she quietly threatened to bite off his fingers and then eviscerate him if he did. It created a rather graphic mental image. Finally Phil gave up, and returned to the front of the van, climbing into the passenger's seat and ordering the driver back to base.

Clint sat across from her on the opposite side of the van, resisting the urge to squirm beneath her gaze. Ugh, Natasha did the same thing to him too, when she wanted to get her way. Damn women.

He did not bother to swing his bow across his back again. Instead, he kept it in his lap, tapping a finger on the grip of his compound bow. He was nervous – something wasn't right. It was too easy. She had just… given up. That did not sit well with him at all. She was planning something, he just knew it.

 _BOOMMMM!_

As if on cue with his thoughts, an explosion rocked the van and tipped it over onto its side. Clint twisted in midair so that he landed on his back, the air knocked out of him.

Their captive grunted harshly as her back was slammed down against the side of the van. With her wrists and ankles cuffed, she was unable to brace herself for the impact, and Clint heard a sickening _crack_ as her head hit the metal walls.

 _Shit._

Her body was curled at an in an odd angle due to her restraints, blood staining the inner wall of the van as it slumped down.

"Dammit!" Phil's voice cried out as the agent kicked his door up and open, pulling out his gun as he crawled out. "All units, report!"

"I'm… alive. I think." Clint muttered into his earpiece. There was a pause as the other teams called in, while Hawkeye pulled himself together and crawled over towards the girl.

"You alive, girl?" He asked rhetorically, knowing that she was unconscious. He first checked her pulse, which thankfully was going strong, and then quickly unshackled her.

" – _on the roof!"_ He heard the agents speaking over the comms. " _We've got snipers! Five more contacts from the alley!_ "

Clint cursed inwardly as he slung his bow across his back and slipped one arm beneath the girl. Kicking open the back doors to the van, he dragged them both out of the tipped car.

"Prisoner is unconscious!" He said into his earpiece. "We're emerging from the main van. I need cover fire."

" _Got it, Hawkeye."_ One of the agents answered him.

In the open, Clint finally caught a glimpse of the situation. There had been three roadside bombs, all seemingly targeting their cars. Three of their four vans had been expertly tipped with the precision of the explosions, while bullets seemed to rain down on them from all sides. Their agents were crouched behind the fallen cars, although he noted that there was already one man down.

He crawled out, another agent ducking over to help him pull the girl out of the vehicle. They dragged her around and behind the very same van. Clint took a moment to glance around, taking only a second to note that there were two snipers, one on their ten o'clock and one at their two. Across the street there were five more men, masked and completely in black, firing what sounded like assault-grade weapons.

 _No mere street gang has those. Who are these people?_

" _Fall back!_ " Phil's voice cut through the chatter. _"There's a small road behind us connecting to a main street. Fall back!_ "

Slowly the SHIELD agents began to back up, taking turns covering each other as one by one they turned and ran to find cover in the back street which cut off the view of their enemies. Clint aided their efforts, thanking god that he had replenished his quiver as soon as he had finished their last mission.

"Ugh…"

Clint glanced down and noticed the girl finally stirring. He quickly knelt beside her, hands hovering over her body, unsure of what to do. He reached up to remove her mask –

–and a small hand snagged his wrist in a tight grip.

"Good to see you're still alive." He said. "Long story short, we're under attack. Think you can stand and run by yourself? We're dodging bullets here."

Her eyes fluttered unsteadily, and when she looked up she was unable to focus on his face, her eyes flickering back and forth erratically. That was definitely a concussion.

"I'll take that as a 'no'." Clint muttered, sitting up to look over the side of the van and quickly releasing a few arrows at the shooters.

"Give me… a g-gun." The girl slurred as she struggled to sit up, her hand coming up to her mask to make sure it was still in place.

Clint glanced back down at her. "I don't think you're in any shape to hold a weapon." He said dryly.

" _Barton!"_ Phil's voice rang in his ear. _"Get moving! The rest of the men will cover you!"_

"Right, time to get outta here." Clint muttered as he pulled his bow over his shoulder, ordering the agent beside him to cover him. He leaned down to pick up the girl –

 _Pow!_

He reeled back as a fist made contact with his face, the girl leaping up and kicking him in the gut with a powerful spinning side-kick. Clint would swear that he went flying, before landing on his back, dazed. The agent that had been working beside him yelled, and then turned to shoot the girl. But she was already on him, catching his arm in an arm-lock, forcing him to drop his gun. Then she grabbed the man by his hair and yanked down, slamming his forehead into her knee. The agent collapsed, unconscious.

She snatched up the discarded gun, glancing down at dazed archer and with a mischievous look in her eyes, held up something with her other hand. A small, flashing device.

A locator.

Oh the irony. Curse words in multiple languages flew threw his head as he rolled to his side and pushed himself up. Clint managed to get to his feet, but by that time she had already leaped over the side of the tipped car.

" _Poyekhali_!" He heard her yell.

Clint ran back to van, arrow knocked and drawn, aiming over the side, only to see the girl disappear into the shadowy alleyway, their mysterious attackers following behind her.

"Fuck!" Clint snarled. _Used my own tricks against me!_

" _Barton, what are you doing?"_ Phil's voice cut through his thoughts. _"Get moving!"_

"…Coming." Clint growled and kneeled down to hoist the unconscious agent over his shoulders. There were only two other agents still hiding behind the cars; the others had retreated to Phil's location. Clint nodded for them to follow him, cutting through another alley and jogging down the street.

Their agents were gathered around the fourth and final van, the only SHIELD car to have escaped the attack. The injured were sitting or lying in the back, while Phil conversed quietly and tersely with an agent. He looked up when he heard their footsteps, relief on his face when he saw Clint.

But then his expression fell into worry.

"Where's the girl?"

Clint winced as he handed the wounded agent over to the team medic. "Gone."

"What do you mean she's _gone_?!" Phil asked loudly.

Clint rubbed his aching chin, knowing there would be a lovely bruise there in the morning. "She escaped. Our attackers must have been friends of hers."

Rather than yelling and cursing, Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a curse.

"Fury will hang us." He said, shaking his head.

"Maybe we just won't tell him?" Clint asked hopefully.

Phil gave him a pointed look.

"There is another Black Widow out there, Barton. We need to get to her before someone else does."

* * *

 **Hahaha Clint is having a _very_ bad day. One would think he could see past Black Widow acting skills by now. ****Yes, I have purposefully left out her name and appearance. We will find that out when Natasha appears!**

 **Anyway, please leave a review! They fuel my inspiration.**

 **~Lilithia**


	4. Chapter 3: Red Ledger

**I survived finals everyone. For a moment there, I didn't think I would make it…**

 **My brain hurts. I can't adult anymore.**

 **Don't do college, kids.**

 **P.S. Remember that this story is rated T for violence. There are some bloody scenes in this chapter.**

 **STANDARD DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the storyline**

* * *

 _I'm sinking like a stone_

 _Never felt something like this before_

 _And we're drowning_

 _We need saving_

 _This ended long ago_

 _I've met someone like you before_

 _And we're drowning_

 _We need saving  
_

* * *

 **SHIELD Central Base – 08:00 hours**

He was dead. Oh god, he was _so_ dead.

When Phil had begun the mission report to their director, it had been almost mundane and ordinary. His handler started with a quick run-down of how they had set up for the mission, how they had scouted the area in two weeks leading up to its accumulation, the steps that they took to ensure that their target would be in the right place at the right time, capturing and replacing Mr. Stevenson, so on and so forth. Fury seemed to almost zone out during Phil's speech, although it was always hard to tell due to the unchanging expression on his face, arms crossed as he leaned lazily against his desk.

And then Phil mentioned the Widow.

Fury immediately snapped to attention, his eye(s?) zeroing in on Phil with the piercing glare that he was so infamous for, proverbial hackles raised.

" _What_."

Phil quickly paused in his report, his mouth snapping shut as Fury slowly pushed off of his desk to stand straight and tall.

"W-We encountered an unknown entity," Phil quickly collected himself, "Who attempted to make off with the package. Agent Barton went in pursuit, tracked her down and fought her. After making contact with the unknown enemy, Agent Barton claimed that he recognized her fighting style as that utilized by Agent Romanov –"

Fury's eye immediately swept over to Clint and locked on him with the intensity of a sniper rifle. Clint resisted the urge to shift nervously, but carefully avoided making eye contact with his director by fixing his gaze on a spot just above the man's shoulder.

"And where is this _Widow_ exactly?" Fury asked in a dangerously calm tone, "And why am I only hearing about this _now_?"

Clint couldn't help the slight cringe that stole across his face.

Phil coughed delicately before continuing. "We captured her briefly, but it seems that she had allies in the area and we… lost her… sir."

 _So fucking screwed._ Clint thought.

For a moment, Fury just stared at them.

"Are you telling me," Their director said lowly in a tight voice that rose in volume with every word, "That there is another Black Widow running around out there, and now we have _no idea where she is_?!"

Now both Phil and Barton were wincing.

"Yes, sir." They both chorused glumly like chastised children.

Fury leaned against his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a loud sigh. "Motherfucker." He muttered, before leaning over his desk and tapping his landline.

" _Agent Hill."_ A female voice sounded from the intercom. _"What can I do for you, sir?"_

"Send up Agent Romanov. Tell her it's urgent." Fury ordered Agent Hill. Then he turned to glance at Phil. "That is all I need from you for now, Agent Coulson. You are dismissed."

Phil nodded professionally, and turned to walk out of the director's office. He caught Clint's eye and gave him a sympathetic look before the door closed behind him.

Not five minutes later, Natasha arrived in all of her Russian redheaded glory, striding into Fury's office in that quiet, predatory manner of hers, all the while looking as if she belonged on a catwalk. Clint eyed the way she moved, the silence of her footsteps, how her eyes seemed to study the entire room in one look, that calculating gaze that always seemed to be measuring everything and everyone as a potential threat.

 _That girl had been the same way, too._ Clint thought, thinking about the way the girl had studied him, studied the other agents, even Phil, sizing them up and determining their weaknesses with just a glance.

"You called, director?" Natasha asked as she came to stand next to Clint. Unconsciously, Clint's body relaxed at her proximity, seamlessly falling into the familiarity of their partnership.

Fury seemed lost in thought for a moment, before his gaze turned to study the two agents. "We have a unique situation on our hands."

 _That's an understatement._

"You're gonna love this." Fury said to Natasha, who raised her brows at their director. "On their last mission, Agent Phil and Agent Barton ran into a rather… _unique_ enemy operative."

Natasha sent a questioning glance towards her partner, but Clint gave a small shake of his head, knowing that she would ask him questions later.

"Romanov." Fury stared intently at Natasha. "According to Agent Barton, this operative showed evidence of being trained as a Black Widow."

It was a testament to how shocked Natasha was, as her stoic façade dropped and her expression clearly showed her surprise. Eyes wide, she glanced between Fury and Clint, as if unsure which one to interrogate first.

"W-What?" She exclaimed in a low voice, near breathless.

Fury sent Clint an expectant look, silently demanding him to explain. The archer turned to face his partner.

"She fought like you." He began, "That's what first tipped me off. Not many can keep up with you or me in hand-to-hand combat, but she did. So I tested her with that one move that you always counter with the 'roundabout' –"

Natasha wrinkled her nose at his awful nickname.

" –and she countered it perfectly. If my eyes had been closed, I could imagine that it was you." Clint rubbed his bruised chin. "When you're angry, anyway."

The redhead snorted but otherwise said nothing, allowing her partner to continue.

"She was about 5'4 or 5'5 –"

"In European terms, Clint."

He smirked at Natasha. "I mean, she was about 162 to 165 centimeters. Short but quick on her feet, and surprisingly strong for a girl, judging by the bruises on my body."

"Shouldn't you know better than to underestimate a woman by now?" Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him, chastising him in a teasing manner.

Instead of returning her jest, Clint became somber. "That's the thing, Tash. I thought she was older at first, but when we were sitting in the van… she was young, Tasha. Early twenties, if I had to guess."

His partner frowned.

"I thought the Black Widow program had been scrapped after you left?" Fury finally cut in, staring at Natasha with a narrowed eye. It had been assumed that the Black Widow program had been cancelled thirty years ago, but for the girl to be only twenty years old... Clearly, they had been wrong.

"It was!" Natasha protested defensively. She crossed her arms, cupping her chin with a hand. "As far as I know, anyway. I only heard about the end of the program through my contacts." She sent Clint a wry glance. "The Soviets and I were not on the best of terms after I defected."

Clint snorted at the understatement. The Soviets had been _pissed_ about losing their best operative and the last surviving Black Widow agent. They sought revenge against Natasha herself, and Clint, who had been the reason she betrayed them. He couldn't even begin to count how many men the USSR had thrown at them in an attempt to kill them. After Natasha left, the rumors said that the Soviets had given up on the Black Widow program.

"So say this girl _is_ a Black Widow." Fury glared at the two of them in his frustration. "Why is this the first time we are hearing about this? And if there are, how recent could they have been? Was there _more_ than one generation of Black Widows? How many are out there now?"

"Probably not as many as you think." Natasha replied grimly. "We were sent on suicide missions, most of the time. Most of us did not live to the age of 20. There were twenty-eight girls in my generation, and I am the only surviving member."

"What if this next generation is larger?" Fury asked, frowning at the implications. "One Black Widow was a pain in the ass," –Natasha smirked– "But twenty? Or thirty? We would lose over half of our forces attempting to track them down and stop them."

Fury began to pace, which was a very bad sign. "Can you imagine the chaos they could cause in the international community? The best assassins ever created… Russia could control politics around the world from the shadows, like some fucked up puppet master."

"I wonder how many they have already taken out, under our very noses." Clint muttered.

Fury paused in his pacing to glare at the archer. " _Thank you_ , Barton."

 _Oh, he's pissed._ Clint grimaced.

Their director sighed for the umpteenth time. "Okay then." He stated finally, straightening his shoulders as he began to plan. "We need to find this girl and bring her in. And you two are the only agents in the world that are capable of doing that."

Clint nodded; he had expected as much. "But where do we start, sir? The mission was a week ago; she could be anywhere by now. We have no leads, no name, not even a face!"

Fury opened his mouth to answer him, but it was Natasha who answered Clint.

"Really now, Clint." She chided. "Why do you think I am here? If anyone can track down a Widow, it's another Widow."

* * *

 **Buenos Aires, Argentina – 18:32**

 _ **One month later…**_

It took them a month – a _month!_ – to track the elusive girl down, but finally Natasha found a lead. Clint had no idea how she had been able to do it, and to be honest he probably didn't want to know, because despite how she had 'reformed' for SHIELD, there were still dark bits of her that would always be the assassin that she had been raised to be. She never mentioned it, and Clint carefully paid it no mind.

They were in Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina, a city that was both modern and rugged. Its European similarities made Clint nostalgic for cities such as Madrid or Vienna, but then there would be something distinctly Latin – salsa music drifting up from the square, the smell of South American beer, _asado_ and _tapas_ drifting up from a restaurant below them – that would remind him of his true location. It really was a gorgeous city, not too posh like Paris, and not too gritty like Mexico City, and not too cold and rainy like London, decorated with bright graffiti and modern art, the people speaking in the rolling tongues and lilting tones of American Spanish. He made a mental note to come back one day, when Fury would finally let him take a vacation (not that he ever would).

 _For once, I get to be in South America without having to trudge through tropical forests or to worry about drug cartels and arms dealers._ Clint thought with some dry humor. Hey, he might even have time to grab a souvenir this time!

" _Pay attention, Clint_." Natasha's voice rang in his ear. He glanced down from his perch on the rooftops, quickly spotting the head of bright ginger hair that was his partner as she blended into the crowds of people walking the streets below.

"How do you _do_ that?" Clint whined good-naturedly as he readjusted his scope and zeroed in on her location. "You can't even see me."

She snorted into her comm. " _Because I know you_."

It was late November, which was spring/early summer for the southern hemisphere, the afternoon pleasantly warm as a crisp ocean breeze blew in from the bay. The streets were filled with vendors displaying their wares for the new season, live bands on ever other corner playing those upbeat Spanish rhythms, the crowd heavy with excitement as the Argentinian independence holiday neared, evidenced by the large amount of national flags hanging from in possible space.

They were nowhere near the city center, which was no doubt much more crowded than their current location, yet even from their position in the suburbs, the city-scape was impressive. The sheer amount of tall buildings, pressed tightly together, fire escapes and a web of telephone lines, was practically a playground for Clint and Natasha. He loved the feeling of flying he got as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, leaping off of telephone poles and sliding down the lines.

" _Someone's having fun._ " Natasha commented as she rounded another corner, pretending to idly walk the streets as she scanned for some sort of evidence of their quarry.

"I am." Clint replied smugly.

" _As long as you aren't distracted from the mission_."

"You know I never would." Clint sniffed, offended at the insinuation. He was a professional! "You're just jealous that I get the fun job while you walk around aimlessly until something pops up."

Her lack of an answer reinforced his statement, making the archer snicker. To her credit, they _had_ been at this all day. They were lucky to get a lead on the girl, but that did not mean that the mission would be easy from then on out. As far as covert information goes, knowing what city she would be in narrowed their search down considerably.

However Buenos Aires was no small town, and looking for one girl in a city of three million was like looking for a needle in a haystack. They knew that her target was the leader of a South American crime syndicate – again, Natasha's intel that he dared not to question – but they did not even know where her target was located either. Clint wasn't just jumping around because he was energetic, he was nervous. Going in blind was one of the worst-case scenarios for a spy, and 8 out of 10 times such a mission ended in blood.

At about seven in the afternoon local time, the distant sound of sirens drew their attention. Without any other clue to their quarry's whereabouts, they decided to follow the sound.

" _Let's get there before the cops do._ " Natasha said quickly, ducking into an alley and breaking into a run and leaping onto a fire escape. She scaled it swiftly, leaping onto the rooftops in time to see Clint running ahead of her. She followed after him, jumping over alleyways and swinging across telephone lines.

They glanced at each other, grinning with adrenaline. Clint let out a huff of laughter. "Told you it was more fun up here."

She snorted, but couldn't suppress her smirk.

They arrived at the building that appeared to be the target of the sirens. There was already a crowd of people surrounding the ground entrance, a couple families hovering by the doorway, huddled together and crying as smoke rose from the windows of the building.

It was a four-story structure, likely an apartment complex. The top floor was leaking smoke, not black enough to be a fire, but something of definitely burning. The sirens rounded the corner at the end of the street.

"We need to do this quickly." Clint muttered, jumping onto the rooftop under the cover of the smoke, Natasha following behind him.

They landed with a grunt and a roll, coming to their feet and launching themselves towards the door. They had five minutes – ten at most – before the authorities reached the top floor. Clint used his pistol to shoot the lock on the roof door, the sound of the shot muffled by a silencer. A split second later, he was kicking the door down, and he and his partner practically flew down the stairs to the fourth floor.

When they arrived in top corridor, it looked like a war zone. There were three bodies in the main hallway alone, and every door had been kicked down, the people within shot dead as well. Most were clean kills – a shot to the head, two to the chest. Cold war tactics.

Clint and Natasha glanced at each other, communicating wordlessly. They split up, Clint studying the bodies while Natasha investigated the rooms.

"All of these people have gang tattoos." Clint said into his earpiece, picking up a woman's arm and turning it over to read it. In the world of crime, tattoos were like dogtags – they could tell one's affiliation, rank, even specialty. "No civilians, thankfully."

He quickly scanned each of the rooms, noting that the smoke they had seen from outside was coming from burning piles of paper. File compartments and book shelves had been cleaned out, their contents dumped into the middle of the room and lit aflame. Someone was destroying information. But for what?

" _I found the target._ " Natasha replied through the comm. Clint dropped the arm and followed her into the room at the end of the hall. Upon entering the room, he winced.

 _Okay… this girl is scary._

Red covered the floor and the walls.

The man had clearly been tortured, tied to a chair and filleted like a piece of meat. A couple fingers littered the ground, his ear had been cut off and lay in his lap, and finally, he had been shot in the head, spraying an explosion of blood and brain matter across the wall behind him.

Clint gagged slightly, rubbing his nose at the smell. It wasn't his first time seeing a gory mess such as this, it wasn't even the worst that he had ever seen really, but he never got used to it like his partner. Natasha was appeared unaffected, as usual.

Calmly, she strode forward and grabbed the dead man by his hair, pulling his head up form where it had been resting on his chest. She studied the man's face for a moment, frozen in a look of shock and pain, eyes glazed over and dull.

"She would have started with the fingers." Natasha narrated in a voice devoid of emotion. She dropped the head and bent down to pick up a finger.

It would not have been the first time Clint saw Natasha handle dead bodies so carelessly, and he always commended her nerve, but it still made chills run down his spine. He, personally, disliked picking up discarded limbs.

"Nails first," Natasha said distractedly, as if she was imagining how the situation might have gone. The finger was indeed missing a nail, as were the others, when Clint glanced down at them. "Then when all of his nails were gone, she would start on the toenails."

Clint glanced down and noticed that the body was missing his shoes, and the toes were indeed missing their nails, and a few toes too, which he noticed had joined the fingers on the bloodied carpet.

"After removing the nails, she begins cutting off fingers," A glance at Natasha's face showed that she was no longer attentive to the situation. Her eyes were unfocused, engrossed in a faraway memory, perhaps.

 _Sometimes I forget that this is what she was capable of, at one time._ Clint thought to himself, glancing over the body again, and then amended, _And perhaps, what she is_ _ **still**_ _capable of._

"After the fingers, we start cutting off the toes," Her voice was faraway, soft, hand clenching the finger in her hand. Clint made a mental note to offer her hand sanitizer later.

 _Wait –'we'?_ He was no longer studying the body, but his partner. Natasha's face was expressionless, but there was a darkness in her gaze that reminded him of the woman she had been when they had first met.

Natasha's eyes traveled down the body. "But not all of the toes are gone," She glanced at the ear laying on the man's lap. "She got hasty – something scared her off, or she was in a hurry. She cut off his ear, hoping it would quicken the process. From the look of things, it worked."

She dropped the finger and picked up the ear. "And when we get the information we are looking for, we cut the loose ends." Natasha's eyes lingered on the hole in the man's forehead.

Clint placed a calming hand on her shoulder, and turned his partner away from the body. He looked into her eyes, past the walls that kept her emotions at bay, and saw the inner turmoil that she hid from the world. As much as Clint had learned to read his partner over the years, he still had trouble deciphering her feelings most times… Such as now. He couldn't tell if she was angry or frustrated, or maybe even afraid. The sight of Black Widow torture techniques had shaken her; that much he was sure of.

He wondered whether she was shaken due to the brutal technique, or if she was remembering a similar scenario in her own past. Had she once tortured a man so ruthlessly, without any sympathy? He dared not think of the answer.

But these thoughts were useless. They had a mission to complete, and their target was now within their grasp.

* * *

 **Next chapter will be up soon, and we finally get to see the infamous Black Widow girl! But in the meantime, click that** **Review** **button for me, please! Reviews fuel my inspirations!**

 **A big 'THANK YOU' to everyone that has reviewed so far. I know that 13 reviews doesn't seem like much, but honestly it is so much more than I expected this early in the story. So thank you, thank you, thank you!**

 **~Lilithia**


	5. Chapter 4: Chasing Ghosts

**I don't claim any knowledge of Russian whatsoever. I leave that to Google translate, so if anyone has a problem with the Russian stuff, don't complain unless you are willing to lend me your translation skills. *prays for a Russian reader to volunteer***

 **I was going to wait longer to release this chapter, but to be honest, I'm as excited to see the next chapter up just as much as you guys are haha. I hope you are all ready to meet our mystery Widow!**

 **STANDARD DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the storyline**

* * *

 _Oh, you'll find me_

 _Between_

 _The devil and the deep blue sea_

 _And I'm going under_

 _I'm drowning now_

 _Between_

 _The devil and the deep blue sea_

 _Come and save me_

 _Save me_

* * *

He said nothing. He never did. Words were useless to Natasha; what she wanted and needed was his silent reassurance. At his touch, Natasha shook herself out of her stupor and threw the ear back onto the lap of the body.

"The cops are likely making their way up already." She said in a tight voice, her hard tone betraying her clashing emotions.

"Let's get moving." He said in a low voice. "She couldn't have made it that far."

Natasha nodded silently, steeling her resolve to take a deep breath and straightening up, squaring her shoulders. "She can't have made it out of the city yet."

They quickly made it back to the rooftop, just in time to hear the sound of more voices echoing up the stairwell – the cops had arrived. Clint and Natasha quickly made their way from the crime scene, again by way of rooftop.

"Wait!"

Clint paused as Natasha veered off course and ran back to the rooftop they had been on previously.

"Look!"

He landed beside her, glancing at the large vent sticking up from the roof. It was small, barely noticeable, but the rusty color was definitely recognizable.

 _Blood._

Natasha squinted closely at it, then gave a frustrated huff. "Not enough for a damn finger print." She scowled. "But enough to gauge the direction she went in."

She pointed in the direction that the blood was smeared. With a quick nod from Clint, they took off in a new direction, all the while on the lookout for another clue.

"We were lucky she got careless." Natasha murmured. "I doubt we will be so lucky again."

Clint inwardly scoffed. She called _that_ careless?! Even he hadn't noticed the clue. Black Widows were such noticed her slowing down again, and drew to a stop. She stood still for a moment, staring off into space distractedly.

"Um, Tash?" He asked, approaching her. "Is there a reason you stopped?" Clint glanced in the direction that she was looking, but saw nothing.

Natasha shook her head. "I don't know I just…" She hesitated, taking a step, and then pausing. "I just got this feeling… down my spine…" Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. "She's watching us!"

Immediately Clint dropped to one knee, spinning around to check their backs. "Get down Tash!" He snapped when he saw that she was still just standing there. "She's a sniper!"

But Natasha did not seem to heed his words. Instead, she pursed her lips and furrowed her brows. "No…" She murmured. "If she had intended to kill us, she would have already pulled the trigger."

 _Not comforting, Tash._ Clint thought in exasperation.

"Then what do you suggest?" He griped as he scanned 360 degrees and saw nothing. "I don't suppose your instincts have a Black Widow radar?"

Natasha continued to look confused. "She has had a shot at us this whole time. Why wouldn't she take it?"

"Maybe she's playing nice?" Clint quipped dryly.

"You _did_ see the pile of meat that was her target, right?" Natasha responded dryly. "No. Black Widows aren't the type to 'play nice', nor do they show mercy. This is not hesitation, it's deliberate."

She turned in a circle, her eyes scanning the rooftops for a shadow, or the glint of a scope. But it was hard to see, now that dusk had fallen. The sun had already set, and the western sky was a rainbow of pastel colors as darkness crept in from the east. It was the perfect moment between day and night, when the light no longer chased away the shadows, and the night was not dark enough to warrant the streetlights.

Then, Clint remembered his last encounter with the girl.

" _I just caught us another Black Widow."_

 _The woman on the ground jerked and turned her face upwards to stare at him. He could see the question in her eyes._

 _Another Black Widow._

 _ **Another**_ _._

"When I caught her, back in Vienna," Clint began in a low voice, "I told Phil that I had caught _another_ Black Widow."

Natasha gave him an annoyed glance, either annoyed that he had failed to mention this until now, or that he had mentioned her in the presence of an enemy. It was likely both.

"So she knows about me." She muttered.

"She doesn't know what you look like, or your name." Clint said, eyes now scanning the cityscape with the binoculars he kept on his person during missions. "But she has likely guessed what you are by now, yeah."

"Still doesn't explain why she is just _watching_ us." Natasha murmured. "We either take the shot or we leave. It isn't like a Widow to just sit and watch."

"Maybe she is wondering what a Widow is doing working for us dirty Americans." Clint muttered, flicking his binoculars to infrared, now that it was dark enough – thank god for SHIELD gadgets. He could never afford one of these things on his own.

He scanned the buildings.

 _There!_

"Heat signature crouched on the building on our three o'clock, four buildings down." He murmured quietly, careful not to linger his gaze in the direction of their target, lest she figure out that she had been spotted.

Natasha did not immediately look in the direction either, carefully scanning the rooftops in feigned ignorance. "We would never make it over there in time." She muttered as she quickly gauged the distance in a glance.

"We can if we fight dirty." Clint suggested, curling the three fingers he used to draw his bow to convey his message to Natasha.

She gave him a flat look. "Fury said to bring her in _alive_ and _whole_."

"I'm not maiming her." Clint pouted. "She'll be whole! …Just a different kind of _hole_." He snickered.

"That was a horrible pun." Natasha deadpanned, sighing in a way that told him that she was contemplating kicking him.

"I'm _not_ letting her get away, Tash." Clint hissed under his breath, carefully scanning the horizon again to keep tabs on the girl's heat signature, noting her positioning and attempting to judge any weak points. "A man's ego can only withstand having his butt kicked by a girl so many times! You were bad enough! My reputation is on the line here!"

Natasha's mouth quirked in that way it always did when she suppressed a smile. "Fine." She sighed. "But nothing risky, okay?"

"You do realize I'm shooting to incapacitate her, right?" He muttered as he stepped behind Natasha to hide his actions from view of their target, carefully sliding his hand behind him to reach his bow. "It's not going to be a minor injury."

"Nothing permanent, okay?" Natasha huffed. "We don't need Fury breathing down our necks _again_."

"That was one time!" Clint whined as he passed the binoculars to her. "Besides, Budapest was a long time ago!"

"And Fury still holds it over our heads." Natasha pointed out, making the archer mutter unkind words under his breath.

It happened in a split second.

Clint whipped out his bow and knocked an arrow in the same second, Natasha dropped down to the ground just as he fired, the arrow barely clearing the top of her head. Natasha brought the binoculars to her face in the same second and quickly focused them in the direction of their target, watching as the heat signature scrambled up a second too late, and then the body jerked as the arrow impacted.

A pained cry echoed across the rooftops, just barely discernable above the dull noise of the city below them.

"She's down!" Natasha hissed, and Clint was already leaping onto the next building, sheathing his bow as he went. Natasha took a moment to make sure that the figure was not going anywhere, before pocketing the binoculars and jumping down after her partner.

They rooftops blurred by until Natasha found herself catching up to her partner, and then passing him altogether. Suddenly, it felt like she wasn't running fast enough. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, the pulse echoing in her ears, and for some reason she felt… nervous. She wanted to be the first one to see this girl, this _Black Widow_ , and yet a part of her dreaded the meeting.

She crested the final rooftop, and dropped down onto the concrete. Looking around, she noticed that there was nobody in sight.

"But – how?" Clint hissed as he landed next to her. "I shot her in the thigh! That arrow should have penetrated straight through! She shouldn't be able to walk!"

Natasha gave her partner a sharp look. "Just a 'little hole' huh?"

He gave her a guilty look, and she sighed.

"I know I saw the arrow hit," She muttered. "The girl can't have gone far." Natasha glanced over to the edge of the roof, a sniper rifle leaning against the low wall, blood spattered on the ground next to it.

"There should at least be a blood trail!" Clint growled in frustration.

"We are taught to tear a piece of our clothing and use it to plug the bullet hole before wrapping the wound, in order to avoid leaving a trail." Natasha explained.

Clint growled under his breath. "Stupid Russians."

Natasha chuckled at his frustration as she walked over to the gun, quickly determining the type and make.

"SV-98. Impressive." She murmured, picking up the Russian sniper rifle. "Slightly outdated nowadays, but it is still effective."

"Later, Tash." Clint reminded her. "We got a target to catch."

Natasha put the gun down and nodded, following her partner as he scanned the rooftop and headed towards the fire escape. Glancing over the edge of the roof, they noticed a shadowed figure struggle to make her way down the steep stairs, leaning heavily onto the iron rails.

Clint leapt onto the fire escape and began to quickly scale down it, Natasha not far behind. The stairs shook with the thudding of their footsteps, alerting their quarry to their presence. Natasha glimpsed the brief flash of the girl's eyes as she glanced up at them, and then the girl was practically throwing herself down the stairs despite her injury. The last ladder of the fire escape was missing, the final platform a good six feet above the ground.

The girl reached the end of the fire escape before they did, of course, and without regard to her injury, leapt down towards the alley below. She grunted in pain as she landed on her feet, the impact jarring her injured leg. Natasha heard a familiar Russian curse drift up from the girl as she struggled to her feet and broke into a limping jog towards the end of the alley.

By now the two agents were nearing the end of the fire escape, with Clint in the lead. Natasha followed him as he leapt down to into the alley, landing on the ground in a roll to absorb the impact. Clint rolled to his feet and immediately drew his bow in the same fluid movement.

"Clint!" Natasha hissed, reminding him that they were supposed to catch the girl _alive_. They would already be in trouble for the first arrow hole, a second would only piss Fury off even more.

"Aw man…" Clint whined, putting his bow away.

They took off in a dash towards the limping figure. The girl whirled around to face them, eyes flashing above her face mask, two pistols in hand.

"Dodge!" Clint yelled unnecessarily.

Both he and Natasha darted out of the way as bullets sailed over their heads. Natasha darted to her left, but Clint ducked as he launched himself forward, tackling the girl at the knees, and the two of them rolled into the street. Luckily, this part of the city appeared to be quite deserted, with no cars in sight.

" _Ublyudok!"_ The girl hissed at him as they toppled to the ground, and Natasha had to stifle a snort at the familiar curse.

Clint and the girl wrestled as she tried to free her arms long enough to put her pistol to his head, and he attempted to disarm her. In the end, the girl dropped her guns and the brief reflection light was the only warning Clint got before a knife slashed towards his throat.

 _Shit!_ Clint jerked back just in time to feel the blade slice the air near his neck. _What is with this girl and her knives?!_

"Move, Clint!" Natasha ordered as she drew next to the two brawlers, kicking the pistols out of the girl's reach and aiming her own down at their target.

Clint pushed himself up and off of the girl, but not before grabbing ahold of the cloth that hid the lower half of her face, which resulted in another near-fatal slash of her knives.

" _Sdavat'sya_!" Natasha ordered the girl to surrender in a stern voice. " _My zdes' ne dlya tebya ubit'_!"

 _We are not here to hurt you._ Clint understood the phrase as he got to his feet and drew away from the girl. She remained sitting on the ground, injured leg splayed out while the other curled beneath her. She was hunched over, face cast into shadow, slowly raising her hands in surrender.

" _Yest' veshchi i pokhuzhe , chem smert_." The girl turned her gaze up to face them, eyes glaring with cold hatred.

And with the aid of the streetlights, they finally saw her face.

He heard Natasha's breath hitch, and noticed her fingers tremble at the trigger. Clint had a similar reaction, frowning gravely as the same thought ran through their minds.

 _She's so young…_

Initially, Clint had guessed that she was in her early twenties, maybe eighteen or nineteen at least. He had been about that age when he began mercenary work. He knew that the Black Widows started much younger, but this…

" _There are worse things than death_." She had said.

It was like meeting Natasha all over again.

* * *

 **Thanks so much to all of my readers! Your reviews mean a lot. I'm glad that everyone likes this story as much as I do.**

 **Please leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 5: Nameless One

**This chapter is... ugh. I'm sorry in advance. I wrote it in multiple sittings and it was hard to make things flow. Just... ugh. Inspiration is an unloyal bitch.**

 **Anyway, we get to meet msytery Widow! Yay!**

 **I DON'T OWN ANYTHING BUT THE PLOT**

* * *

 _I'm sinking like a stone_

 _Never felt something like this before_

 _This ended long ago_

 _Never met someone like you before_

 _And I'm drowning_

 _But I didn't know_

 _I needed saving_

* * *

 **SHIELD hover carrier – 0:500 Argentina (Coordinate Universal Time)**

Not trusting the young Widow not to attempt to escape once more, Natasha and Clint decided to sedate her. Knowing she would put up a fight, Clint began to handcuff the girl as he slid a syringe from his utility belt, and then surprised the girl by wrapping his arms around her to keep her from struggling as he stuck the needle into the girl's shoulder. She gave a sharp cry of pain, wriggling uselessly in his arms for a moment, before the powerful chemicals kicked in, and she slumped forward.

He picked up the girl and retreated into the shadows of the alley to hide the unconscious body in his arms, radioing in for SHIELD to pick them up while Natasha went to retrieve the car they had been using. Natasha returned with a battered, unlicensed car and picked the archer and the girl up, then they drove out to the agreed meeting point with SHIELD.

The two partners barely spoke to one another unless it pertained to the immediate mission. Clint wanted to ask Natasha her thoughts about the young Widow, but judging from the tense line of her shoulders and how tightly she kept her lips pressed together, he thought better of the idea.

So they silently drove out into the Argentinian countryside, to an unsupervised location where a SHIELD jet could safely pick them up and transport them to the hover carrier, which was suspended just outside of Argentinian airspace above the southern Atlantic Ocean.

Not even the soldiers who came to pick them up in the jet said anything other than a greeting. One man had offered to transport the unconscious girl aboard the plane, but Natasha only glared at him, and Clint very pointedly picked gathered the girl into his arms and personally carried her up the ramp. After that the soldiers seemed to pick up on the level of stress the two assassins were feeling and left them alone.

The flight back to the hover carrier was relatively short, and soon the jet was docking onto SHIELD territory. Clint and Natasha relaxed a bit, now that they were out of the field, but it did nothing to quell the tumultuous thoughts in their heads. Again, Cling was the one to pick up the body of the young Widow and carry her into the base, Natasha walking unusually close behind him, glaring at anyone that so much as looked at the unconscious girl too long.

They immediately went for the secured med-bay, heading for a small private room and placing the girl down on the bed. Clint took the visitor's chair, while Natasha remained standing, hovering beside the hospital bed and staring down at the girl's face as if it alone could answer all of her questions. Not five minutes later, Fury strode in like a bat out of hell.

"You finally did it." He said as the doors automatically slid open to admit him. He glanced at the status of their prisoner and frowned. "Is that blood I see?"

Clint winced, drawing the attention of their director.

"I thought I said to bring her in without extensive bodily harm?"

"She's alive!" Clint protested. "It's just… Well, she's a Widow, sir. She wouldn't come without a fight."

Fury sighed, having expected as much, but still displeased. "I already have a doctor on their way to patch her up and check up on her health. After that we'll wake her up and get some answers."

Natasha finally broke her gaze away from the girl and stepped towards Fury. "I want to be the one to interrogate her, sir."

"Absolutely not, Romanov." Fury quickly denied her. "You are too close to this. You are emotionally attached to this situation; allowing you to be the one to track her down was already against protocol, but you were the only one who knew how to find a Black Widow. You may stand in the viewing room, but that is as close as you will get to the girl until we get to know her better."

Natasha's hardened into a perceptible scowl, but she back down, nodding in acceptance to Fury. Their director bade them to go get their own post-mission check-ups and catch up on some sleep, and then swept out of the room. Clint glanced over at his partner, noticing the thoughtful look in her eyes, and groaned.

"You're really bad at following orders, you know that?" He said as the doors once again slid open, and a man in a military doctor's uniform saluted them before walking in to observe the girl.

Natasha scrutinized the man for a long moment, before deeming him safe enough to be near the unconscious girl. Clint stood up and guided his partner out of the room, knowing she would never leave otherwise.

"I need to talk to her, Clint." Natasha whispered as they walked away from the med-bay. "I need answers."

"You'll get them." Clint promised her. But he wondered whether those answers would give her closure, or if they would only lead to more questions.

* * *

 **SHIELD hover carrier – 09:00**

The girl was woken up four hours later, after the doctors had patched up her thigh and allowed the sedation to wear off, and taken immediately for interrogation. She arrived at the interrogation room escorted by four armed guards, all of which eyed her like a rabid animal that would snap at any minute. They had pushed her down into a metal chair and handcuffed her wrists to the top of the steel table, two of the guards exiting the room, and two remaining to stand behind her.

"Four guards?" Clint murmured to his partner as they watched her arrival from the viewing room.

"It would be no problem for her, if she were to try to escape." Natasha responded, as if Clint did not already know. He'd seen Natasha take on much greater odds and still make it look easy. This younger Widow was no doubt in the same league.

Natasha narrowed her eyes to study the girl, remembering everything she had ever learned about the Red Room to see how the girl might have measured up in their eyes.

The girl certainly did not _look_ Russian, which was the first thing that most would notice. In fact, her ethnicity was hard to place, which was probably why the Red Room had chosen her. Golden-tanned skin, dark and curly hair, and her equally dark almond-shaped eyes were common in most places in the world, but with the addition of her straight nose and high cheekbones – a traditionally European facial structure – made her an interesting puzzle.

She was definitely mixed race, perhaps Russian and Siberian? Her features could pass for any number of ethnicities, making her easy to loose in almost any crowd, no matter where she was in the world. She was not a show-stopping beauty by any means, but the unique combination of eastern and western traits certainly made her something exotic, something that could make any man pause and stare.

Exactly what the Red Room would want.

Looking back at their fight with the girl, Natasha could definitely tell that he girl had Red Room training. Her tactics, fighting and torture techniques, even the weapons that she used – they were things that the Black Widows grew up learning. No one else could duplicate such a thing.

Natasha's attention snapped to the door of the interrogation room as it opened.

Fury himself walked in, a file in hand, coming to stand across from the girl and studying her with his lone eye. He slowly opened the file and began to lay its contents out in front of the girl for her to see. Natasha and Clint arched their heads to get a look at what the papers were, noticing in surprise that they were pictures of the men she had killed just the day before. Pictures of dead bodies, burning paper, and a rather grueling close-up image of the man she had tortured.

The girl's face remained unchanged as her eyes flicked down to the photos with disinterest, then gazing back up at Fury with an unaffected expression.

"I am going to question you now," Fury began, "And if you know what is best for you, you will answer my questions. They more you cooperate, the better treatment you will receive. I may even excuse you for the mission that you interfered with earlier this month."

The girl's face remained unmoved.

"Who are you?" Fury asked first.

She remained silent.

Fury tapped the pictures of the dead men. "You are rather young to be killing left and right, little girl. What do you gain from this?"

Again, silence.

"I have evidence implicating you in the murder of at least thirteen men already." Fury continued. "And I bet that you've killed a lot more." He placed his hands on the table and loomed over her. "I'll be more direct: are you working for Russia?"

Natasha let out a frustrated hiss, making Clint glance over at her. "He's going about this all wrong; asking all the wrong questions." She muttered, shaking her head. "Torture and intimidation won't work on her."

Clint patted her arm. "I think intimidation is the only thing Fury knows how to do." He chuckled.

The interrogation went quickly after that. Fury would ask a question, and the girl would just stare back at him with a blank expression. The gory pictures did not affect her at all, and any intimidation or insinuating violence or imprisonment had the same lack of reaction. Finally, after Fury had been at it for almost forty minutes, they had a reaction:

She _yawned_.

Clint snickered as Fury turned beet red and growled at her audacity. In the end, the girl had said not a word, and was taken back to her secured medical room, while Clint and Natasha exited the viewing room. As they exited the room, Fury stormed past them with a dark, angry look on his face, snapping at them not to say a word. Figuring that attempting to speak to him at this point was suicide, Natasha and Clint began to make their way to the living section.

"So, how does a good spar sound?" Clint asked his partner.

Natasha shook her head. "I want a look at that file that Fury had on the girl. He had that made quite fast, considering we only brought the girl in a couple hours ago."

"I'll come." Clint quickly said. Natasha gave him an annoyed look, making him smirk. "You didn't think I would be fooled _that_ easily, did you?"

She sighed, looking around the corridor, and pulling Clint aside into the nearest mechanical room, making sure that there were no witnessed in sight.

"Alright, you caught me." She muttered.

"Are you sure that talking to her by yourself is wise?" Clint asked softly.

Natasha bristled. "What do you mean by that?" She snapped defensively.

"Tash," Clint chided. "It's obvious that she has an effect on you. It's been a while since a mission has made you this emotional."

"I'm not –" Natasha caught herself before she could prove Clint right. She then scoffed and opened the door. "I'm going whether you like it or not, Clint."

He sighed and nodded. "I know. But I want to be there."

She pursed her lips but said nothing as she stalked out of the room and down the hallway, making her way towards the brig. There were two guards posted outside of the prisoner's room, two tall agents in parade stance with their hands on their rifles.

"I have orders to speak with the girl." Natasha lied easily with false authority. The men stepped aside dutifully, although she stopped them with a hand when they attempted to follow her in. "No, you're presence will make it harder to persuade the girl. Remain outside; Agent Barton will be with me in case of an emergency."

The men glanced at each other nervously, before reluctantly backing away from the doorway. Clint followed her in without a word, silent as a shadow. The door slid shut behind him, a soft 'click' sounding the lock.

The girl appeared to be sleeping, leaning back on a hospital bed that was raised so that she was propped up in an almost-sitting position, her ankles were cuffed together, and her wrists were cuffed to the rails of the bed. However her eyelids slid open at their presence, calm and seemingly unsurprised at their presence, her eyes quickly scanning each of them before resting upon Natasha. She pulled herself up and sat all the way forward as they came further into the room. Her face was masked without any evidence of emotion, although her eyes flashed as she stared at Natasha with detached interest.

To both of their surprise, the prisoner spoke first.

" _I vot vy_." She murmured expectantly. _And here you are._

" _I vot ya zdes_." Natasha responded. _And here I am._

Neither woman glanced at Clint as he found a nice dark corner of the room to brood in while they conversed. They remained still, regarding each other with equal parts wariness and curiosity. And then Natasha stepped forward until she was an arm's length from the side of the bed, staring down at the girl as her gaze hardened and she began her own interrogation.

"So… You are a Black Widow." Natasha murmured, although it sounded more like a question.

The girl tilted her head and again glanced over the redheaded woman before speaking. "I am."

Clint had to stifle the urge to smirk at that. Natasha was quiet for a moment, again simply staring and studying the girl. "I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Natasha Romanov, first generation Widow."

The girl blinked at Natasha, giving the two agents the impression that she was somehow surprised.

"I am 117." She finally spoke. "Second generation Widow."

Now it was Natasha and Clint's turn to blink in surprise. _So there_ _ **was**_ _another generation…_ Natasha's face became grim.

"And your name?" The redhead asked her.

"I already told you." The girl said.

The two agents glanced at each other. _Is this girl serious?_

"Your name… is one-seventeen?" Natasha repeated slowly. The brunette nodded. In his corner, Clint rubbed his hand over his face and muttered under his breath.

"And your codename?" Natasha asked.

The girl blinked. "One-seventeen, of course."

"So… you _don't_ have a name?" Natasha murmured incredulously.

"I find it odd that _you_ do." The young Widow replied. "Did the Red Room give you your name, or did you name yourself?"

Clint had never seen Natasha so out of her depth during an interrogation. The calm, collected persona she usually held was wiped from her face. She looked unusually young with the lost expression on her face, eyes unusually expressive, mouth parted in surprise.

"I –I have always had my name." Natasha said, clearing her throat to cover up her stuttering.

The younger Widow merely hummed at that, but otherwise made no comment. Another awkward silence ensued, and even Clint was starting to feel bewildered at the strange interaction between the two Widows. Finally, when it appeared that Natasha was at a loss for words, Clint decided that it was his time to ask the questions.

Stepping away from the shadows, he came to stand next to his partner. The girl's eyes immediately flickered to him at his movement, lidded eyes regarding him in a bored manner that gave him the impression of how a bird looked at an insect. It rubbed him the wrong way, but he gritted his teeth and addressed her politely.

"Miss, uh, One-seventeen." He tried to keep his body relaxed and as unassuming as possible. "How old are you?"

She shrugged. "Either sixteen or seventeen. Not quite sure, really."

 _Too young for such a life._ Clint thought sadly. "Who have you been working for?"

"I'm a mercenary." She shrugged with a deadpan voice. "I'm paid by whoever pays the most."

He should have known, after all, Clint had worked as an assassin for some time during his younger years. However it was odd to see a Widow working outside of government control. "So you are not working for the Russian government?"

"No." The brunette stated simply.

He felt his brows raise, and glanced at an equally perplexed Natasha. "Why not?"

"They decided that the Widows no longer served their purpose." She replied flatly with a stoic expression.

"So what happened to the program?"

She shrugged, but said nothing. Clint frowned, knowing that she was done with the subject. Looked like it was time to pursue another line of questioning. "So you have been working as a gun for hire, then?"

The brunette just stared at him with an exasperated expression. Apparently she did not like repeating herself – another thing she had in common with Natasha.

"And who paid you for your last job?" Clint asked her.

"I can't tell you that." The girl tutted. "My reputation depends on my customer confidentiality, as you must know."

"Currently, you may be charged with murder-for-hire, theft of sensitive information, and the assassination and destruction of government assets." Clint stated. "If you agree to help us, or give us information on your contracts, we may be more lenient."

The girl gave him a wry look. "Everyone dies. I just speed up the process."

"But are you willing to die for these people?" He pointed out. "Will anyone object if the American government tosses you into a cell and throws away the key? Does anyone even care enough about you to come to your rescue?"

The young Widow faltered for the first time, doubt flashing across her eyes. Natasha, freed from her own inner thoughts, latched onto the girl's weakness.

" _Vy ne obyazany te muzhchiny nichego_." She spoke to the girl in Russian, hoping that the familiarity of their native tongue would put the girl at ease. " _SHIELD nikogda ne pozvolit zakhvachennyy_ _ **vdova**_ _vyyti na svobodu. Yesli vy khotite , chtoby izbezhat' tyuremnogo zaklyucheniya , eto v vashikh interesakh , chtoby prisoyedinit'sya k ikh vmesto._ "

Lucky for Clint, who had always had a knack for languages, he was capable of understanding Russian thanks to his proximity with Natasha. He wasn't quite able to converse in the language yet, but he could understand it when spoken.

 _You owe those men nothing,_ Natasha had told the girl, _SHIELD will never allow a Widow to walk free. If you want to avoid imprisonment, it is in your interest to join them instead._

The girl actually appeared troubled at Natasha's words. Widows were a dangerous weapon, rarely did they last long on their own. It was no secret that most governments would not hesitate to kill a Widow rather than let them fall into the wrong hands. Another bout of silence ensued as the young brunette became lost in her thoughts.

" _Ya ne zainteresovan v igre geroya_." The young Widow told the older assassins. _I am not interested in playing hero._

"It's not about being a hero." Natasha replied.

The girl curled her lip at Natasha. "Is that what you tell yourself?" She scoffed. "Do you think that we did not hear stories about you? The Widow that betrayed our country because of her silly little emotions?"

Natasha pursed her lips and Clint opened his mouth to snap at the girl, but Natasha held her hand up to stop him. She glanced at her partner and shook her head slightly. She understood the mindset that these girls had grown up with. She had been the same way at her age – but guilt would always catch up eventually.

"I suggest that you think very carefully over your current situation." Natasha told the younger Widow in a patient voice. "You are not exactly in a situation to refuse SHIELD."

The girl's face instantly wiped clean of emotion, eyes flashing in a defensive glare as her muscles coiled like a snake ready to strike, her hand instantly covering he wounded thigh as if to shield it from harm. It struck something within Clint to see the girl expecting them to hurt her, due to her experiences with the harsh treatments of the Red Room and similar organizations.

 _BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!_

All three of them gasped as the carrier suddenly jolted, swinging harsh towards the starboard side of the ship. The girl fell backwards into the hospital bed, Natasha was caught herself on the rail of the bed, while Clint was thrown into the wall of the room. Above their heads, a red light flashed and an alarm sounded.

" _We are under attack. I repeat, we are under attack."_ Agent Hill's voice sounded over the intercom. _"All agents to battle stations! We are under attack, I repeat…"_

"We're under attack?!" Natasha hissed as she scrambled to her feet.

"By who?!" Clint growled as he hauled himself back up. "We're in a flying invisible ship above international waters! How the fuck did they even find us?"

The two agents simultaneously glanced suspiciously at the girl chained to the hospital bed. She caught their stares and scowled, holding up her cuffed hands.

"Don't look at me." She muttered. "Blowing up the aircraft doesn't exactly save _me_ , now does it? Whoever they are, they are no friends of mine."

Natasha nodded at that, although Clint had his doubts. The ship shuddered again, and the two agents were forced to brace themselves again.

"C'mon!" Natasha yelled as the ship stilled again and she threw herself towards the door. "We need to get up-deck!"

Clint nodded wordlessly and ran across the room to her, opening the door manually as the power was currently being re-routed to the defense shields. They ran into the halls, leaving the prisoner chained to her bed.

"H -Hey!" The girl yelled as they disappeared out of the door, metal clanging as she yanked at the cuffs around her wrists. "Let me go!" She tugged until her wrist became red and raw. "Someone unchain me, _chert poberi_!"

The ship shuddered again as something exploded, and the girl gasped as the metal walls began to creak.

* * *

 **So... what do you guys think about the girl? I'm kinda nervous about her characterization. I wanted her to be mysterious but at the same time, I wanted her to have a bit of sass.** **Gaaahhhh I'm so conflicted!**

 **Please leave a review!**

 **MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!**


	7. Chapter 6: Whirlwind

**Sorry for the wait everyone. Holiday traveling and everything. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!**

 **I OWN NOTHING BUT THE PLOT**

* * *

 _I'm bad luck, you know_

 _Follows me around everywhere I go,_

 _I don't need your sympathy,_

 _I need a fuckin' miracle,_

 _Red wine, teeth stain_

 _It's been a long day_

* * *

 **SHIELD hover carrier – 13:30 Argentina (Coordinate Universal Time)**

Clint and Natasha left the brig at a run, knocking into various other agents who were all too busy to stop and talk to them. The other men were hastily pulling on their armor as they ran, tugging their guns forward and clicking off the safety. The alarms on the walls were flashing bright red, accompanied by the shrill of sirens. Agent Hill's voice no longer sounded over the intercom. Finally, Clint grabbed the collar of one of the soldiers and slammed him into the wall.

"What's going on, soldier?" Clint demanded.

The man took a second before he recognized Hawkeye, and lifted the visor of his helmet to reply. "Unknown aircraft are attacking the ship, sir! A larger carrier has been spotted approaching starboard! We believe that they are going to attempt to board the ship!"

Clint let go of the man, who ran off in the direction of the anticipated attack. He looked at his partner with an alarmed expression. Natasha's face was grim.

"Time to suit up." She said as she pulled out her guns.

With a wordless nod, the two agents followed in the direction that the soldier had disappeared to. They stumbled several times as the ship shuddered through the attacks from outside, the distant sounds of bombs and explosions echoing down the metal hallways.

A giant shudder ran through the hull of the ship, knocking both of them off their feet and slamming them into the walls as the world tilted and the wall somehow became the floor for a terrifying moment. Then gravity took over, and the ship righted itself, the entire hull was now tilted somehow.

"The hell was that?!" Clint swore as he got to his feet, rubbing his bruised side.

Natasha's eyes were wide when they met his gaze. "I think someone took out one of the rotors."

"Shit!" Clint cursed.

" _The enemy has boarded the ship!"_ Agent Hill's voice suddenly rang through the damaged intercom, her voice periodically interrupted by static. _"Reinforcements to the bridge! I repeat – reinforcements to th –"_

They hear Agent Hill curse as she is somehow separated from the intercom and the sound of a firefight echoes over the comm.

"Let's go!" Clint yells, Natasha on his tail as they change direction and head to the bridge.

Upon arriving, the entire room is in chaos. The control room has been taken over by a firefight between SHIELD agents and armed men in unidentified uniforms. Clint and Natasha pause behind the doorway, glancing over the room.

A small carrier ship of a strange design seemed to have penetrated the outer defenses of the helicarrier and managed to crash through the windows of the bridge, allowing soldiers to board straight into the control room. The floor of the control room was littered with the bodies of those agents that had been manning the ship during the attack, engineers and pilots that were supposed to be non-combative but caught in the crossfire.

It was obvious that the SHIELD agents had arrived too late, as it looked like most of the personnel that were regularly stationed in the room were dead. The SHIELD reinforcements were on the defensive, hiding behind overturned desks and behind doorways, popping out to shoot at the attackers before taking cover. The two sides seemed to be at a standstill, the attackers having total control of the bridge, but having trouble pushing through SHIELD agents to go any further into the ship.

"Time to stop playing it safe." Natasha growled beside Clint, annoyed that the enemies had managed to make it this far. Those men should not be this hard to take out!

"Cover me?" She asked as she readied herself.

"Of course." Clint answered just as the Russian shot out of their cover and ran towards the opposition with her pistols blazing.

At first the attackers were caught off guard, Natasha downing three men before they managed a response. In a familiar pattern, Clint began picking off the men who were taking aim at Natasha, while the Widow was jumping all over the place, using her acrobatics to dodge bullets while shooting the men closest to her.

Seeing the Black Widow in action, the other SHIELD agents emerged from their hiding spots and joined the fight. Now they had a chance.

The two sides were evenly matched now, firing back and forth. But for every man that SHIELD agents took out, the attackers would return the favor. Even Natasha had been forced to back off from the offensive, taking refuge among the other SHIELD soldiers as the opposition increased the ferocity of their attacks.

"At this rate, we're all gonna die." Natasha griped as she retreated to stand next to Clint, eyes still focused on the fight, and occasionally taking a shot. She paused to wipe her forehead with her arm. "It pains me to say this, but these bastards are good."

Clint nodded in agreement. The enemy soldiers were wearing good armor, so unless he managed to spot a weak point, his arrows were useless.

"Kevlar and porcelain plating." Clint growled. "I need a rifle…"

"Too late for that." Natasha hissed just as a something rolled across the floor.

" _Grenade!"_ Someone yelled, and the two agents threw themselves backwards just as an explosion rocked the control room. It had been a smoke bomb, filling the air with an opaque gas that made both sides pause in their fighting.

And then a lithe figure darted into the fray.

No one could tell what side the person was one, due to the smoke, only that there was suddenly movement, quickly followed by the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

" _It's the target!"_ An unfamiliar voice yelled across the room.

Natasha and Clint squint through the smoke, which is steadily clearing as wind drafts through the broken windows. The shadow is attacking their enemies, leaping from a desk to tackle one of the soldiers before popping back up and hurtling towards another enemy.

"It's the girl!" Natasha hisses beside him in shock.

Clint sees it now – a petite figure in an ill-fitting SHIELD uniform that she must have stripped from a dead agent, dodging bullets with unbelievable speed.

The girl – One-seventeen – grabbed the barrel of a gun, ripping it out of the man's hands and smashing the butt of the gun into his forehead when he was yanked forward. Several other soldiers began to shoot, but she spun around the body and held it up like a shield, shooting back at them from over the dead man's shoulder. She ducked down beneath a desk and must have shot at their legs, because suddenly the enemies closest to her were collapsing with pained yells. The girl leaps over a desk and slams down onto one of the men, shooting him point-blank in the face, before jumping up and dodging as another soldier tried to body slam her. She stepped to the side, just enough so that the man did not touch her, and then rammed her elbow into the back of his helmet, knocking him into the ground and shooting the back of his neck. Three more men attack her, but she's in the air, springing off of a chair and landing on his shoulders, shooting down into his head and pushing off of his body to dodge more bullets. She lands on another desk, and then to the floor, where she lands in a roll, coming back up to shoot another man in the groin. He falls with a scream, and she shoots his forehead. The last man is shooting at her relentlessly, but she's moving so fast that she's a blur, spinning and dodging – and then she's somehow behind him, and she shoots the back of his knees.

The man gasps and falls to his knees, the girl kicks the gun out of his hands and knocks his helmet off of his head, grabbing his hair and yanking him backwards. His hands immediately come up in an attempt to stop her, but she shoots both of his shoulders, right into the sockets, no doubt shattering his joints. His arms fall uselessly to the side.

"Shit…" Clint whistles, impressed.

The girl drops her gun and pulls out a knife, holding it against the shell of the soldier's ear. "Who sent you?" She growls.

"We need to stop her." Natasha says as she begins to walk towards the center of the room, now littered with bodies. "If she gets the information she wants, she'll kill him before we can interrogate him."

"Answer me!" The Widow hisses as she slices off the man's ear. He screams and tries to jerk away from her, but she has a firm grasp of the back of his neck, nails digging into the skin.

"Put it down, One-seventeen!" Natasha orders, aiming her gun at the girl. "Let us take him into custody."

Clint stood beside her, arrow drawn and aimed at the hand which holds her knife. But the girl does not even glance up at their voice, but continues to hold the man, moving her knife to just below his eye.

"If they take you," She murmurs in the man's ear, "They will be much nicer about interrogation than I am. So answer my questions, and _maybe_ I'll let them take care of you. They might even put you back together, sweet little Americans as they are."

She emphasizes her point by leaning her elbow into his wounded shoulder and putting enough pressure on the injury to make him whimper.

"Stand down, One-seventeen!" Natasha snaps.

"I d-don't know a-anything!" The man gasps through the pain. "They only t-tell us what the t-target is!"

"Which would be me…" One-seventeen growled, ignoring another warning from the SHIELD agents. "Did you see who your captain received orders from?"

"I swear I didn't!" The man trembled.

The girl snarled in disgust and, glancing at the SHIELD agents, kicked the man towards them. With four injured limbs, the man sprawled forward onto the floor.

"You can have him." She snapped, dropping the knife and holding her hands up in surrender.

Clint hurried forward to check on the man, while Natasha kept her gun trained on the girl.

"On your knees." She ordered the One-seventeen, who wordlessly complied. Natasha stepped behind her and handcuffed the girl.

"How did you even get out of the cell?" Natasha muttered under her breath. The cuffs they had used on the girl had been industrial strength, required an electronic key and could not be picked. The young Widow just smirked.

* * *

 **SHIELD hover carrier – 18:17 Argentina (Coordinate Universal Time)**

"HOW THE HELL DID THOSE GUYS FIND US?!" Fury's voice shook the windows of the viewing bay of his office, which overlooked the now-destroyed control room.

Agents Hill, Barton, and Romanov were with him, discussing the events of the ambush. After the fire squad that attempted to seize the ship had been dispatched, the attacking jets that had accompanied them had then turned around and retreated. Now the helicarrier was slowly limping back to base, slowly making its way back north to the United States for repairs. But besides the damaged rotor and the attack on the control room, most of the ship had gotten away without a scratch.

"The man in custody has said nothing." Clint said, crossing his arms.

"They seemed to be targeting the prisoner." Natasha added. "While they were attacking, they called her the target."

"'They' being who, exactly?" Agent Maria Hill spoke up. "There were no identifying symbols on anything. Uniforms, jets – nothing. We have no idea who they are."

"Speaking of the girl," Fury interrupted, "Why was she in the bridge in the first place? I thought she was locked up."

"She escaped, obviously." Clint shrugged, earning himself a dirty look from their director.

"One-seventeen was just as surprised at the attack as we were." Natasha pointed out, leaning against the wall.

Fury looked at Natasha with a confused expression. "One-seventeen?"

"It's her only name." Natasha told him with a distasteful curl of her lip.

The director snorted. "How unfortunate."

"I think we need to question her again." Clint suggested. "She was rather angry at the man that she was interrogating. I got the feeling that she was not surprised that she was the one being targeted."

Natasha's eyes widened at his words. "Not surprised that they attacked, just that they attacked her while she was _here_." She realized out loud.

"That doesn't solve our problem!" Fury grouched. "These bastards somehow tracked down an _untraceable_ ship and got past all of our defenses! I wanna know _who_ these fuckers are and where they got their technology! That was some military-grade shit!"

Clint and Natasha straightened from their positions and made for the door.

"We'll be sure to ask her." Clint replied dryly as they walked out.

Fury's voice followed them out the door. _"Cut the sass Barton!"_

* * *

They found One-seventeen back at the medical bay, once again chained to the bed while a doctor re-wrapped her wounded thigh, admonishing her for fighting while injured, as the wound had re-opened during the skirmish. The prisoner just rolled eyes, leaning back into the bed with her arms resting on the bed's armrests with a bored expression.

"Doctor." Clint greeted as he and Natasha stepped into the room.

"Hello agents." The doctor looked up at them, securing the bandage around the girl's thigh before straightening up. "I suppose it's time for me to leave now?"

They nodded at that, and the doctor dipped his head as he slipped out of the room. One-seventeen regarded them with a guarded look, unconsciously crossing her arms defensively.

"I won't mince words this time." Natasha immediately began speaking. "Who were those men?"

The girl squinted her eyes, a vague expression of displeasure crossing her face. Anyone else would have missed it, except Clint was well-versed in reading the generally pokerfaced Widows.

"I can't tell you for sure." She murmured, looking away with the corners of her lips turning down in a faint frown.

"But you have an idea who it was." Natasha pressed.

"Widows have many enemies," One-seventeen said, "But with that sort of money and technology – it narrows it down a bit."

"Names." Natasha demanded.

"Mohammed Al-Kassar, a Saudi arms dealer." One-seventeen began. "He and his brother, Adan, had built an illegal empire of weapons and mercs. Eventually the brothers began to fight over who would have complete control of the business. With my assistance, Adan emerged victorious. Mohammed vowed vengeance – those Middle Eastern men are obsessed with such silly notions."

"Francois Devereux, a French spymaster." She continued. "He has his fingers in every government imaginable. Governments go to him to get dirt on their enemies and their peers alike. I worked for him for a time – but when I decided to leave, he was rather… _irate_. He is a powerful but rather secluded man. But he'll emerge from his hiding hole when presented with a bottle of 1907 Diamant Bleu cuvee."

"Fucking French…" Clint rolled his eyes.

"Last but not least, there's a reclusive organization known as... Tule? Thule?" One-seventeen waved her hand carelessly. "They don't approach outsiders very often, usually relying on their own men to get things done. I was asked to help them out with a few missions, and they paid quite nicely. They did not give me any names or explanation of their goals, so don't ask."

"I've never heard of such an organization…" Natasha glanced at Clint with a frown.

One-seventeen nodded. "That's what makes them so intimidating. They've got power and wealth and a lot of weaponry – and yet no one knows who they are, save for a few moles in the underground. I didn't even know them myself before they approached me."

"And why would they be after you?" Natasha asked her.

"I don't usually go around telling people that I'm a Widow. It draws the wrong attention." One-seventeen replied evenly. "More than one organization found out that I was a Widow after I had finished my business with them, and were very unhappy that I was not willing to sell my loyalty to them. Then they try to send men after me, only for me to send them back a bunch of heads in a sack." She smirked. "Can't make a Widow do anything she doesn't wanna do, you know."

"So if there are other organizations that want to capture you, what makes these guys so special?" Clint asked.

The girl paused to think. "Well, they were a lot creepier than your average hired-gun-pillage-rape-and-plunder kinda guy. They were fanatical – except it wasn't religion that they followed. They followed a philosophy of _order_."

Clint raised his brows at Natasha, wordlessly asking if she knew of any such organization, but she shook her head. Neither of them had heard of such a movement.

"It's worth mentioning to Fury." She nodded.

The girl leaned back and regarded them carefully. "So, what now?"

The two agents stared at her for a long moment.

"That's up to Fury to decide." Clint told her, glancing at Natasha pointedly, knowing she might say something that their director would disapprove of. Thankfully Natasha remained silent.

"So you're just gonna let me sit here while you go play politics?" One-seventeen gave them an annoyed look.

Both Natasha and Clint shrugged.

"Can't do more that, kid." He said over his shoulder as he and his partner walked out of the room.

" _Pozvonite mne, malysh snova , i ya budu sokratit' yazyk_." One-seventeen muttered under her breath.

In the hallway, Clint glanced over at Natasha as the redhead began to chortle.

"What did she say?" He asked, having not heard the girl's words.

Natasha smirked at him. "Call me 'kid' again, and I'll cut out your tongue."

"Such a nice girl." Clint drawled.


	8. Chapter 7: Gone Girl

**Whew, it's been a while, huh guys? College is rough. I swear it sucks the life out of you. Honestly, I really shouldn't be doing this. I should be studying, not writing. Oh well, I needed to de-stress a bit.**

 **Also, sorry about the short chapter. I don't have much time on my hands at the moment, but I promise to make it up to you guys in later chapters.**

 **I DON'T OWN ANYTHING**

* * *

 _When I found you,_

 _you could run so fast._

 _You were a speed train,_

 _And you were still on the run,_

 _You would just crash right in,_

 _And then you just move along._

* * *

 **Eastern coastline, near New York, United States – 10:37**

Two days later, the hover carrier approached Delaware under the cover of night. Fury had already contacted his superiors in DC, arranging for repairs to be ready and waiting once the ship reached the New York base. After the initial damage had been assessed and the repairs ordered, Fury called for his two best agents to meet in his office. Romanov and Barton showed up exactly on time, ill-concealed curiosity on their features.

"Agents." He greeted them with a nod. "I'm sure you two have been wondering what to do with your recent stray."

"I assume you are referring to One-seventeen." Clint drawled.

"Yes…" Fury drawled as he glanced down at the papers on his desk.

The face of the young woman stared up at him, a photograph taken when she was still working for the Soviets, clipped to the sadly thin file that sat open in front of him. SHIELD agents had scoured high and low for information regarding the young Widow, but there was very little to be found. Fury was impressed with the girl – she had managed to stay under the radar for years, working under aliases and avoiding any detection by any government. There were a few reports about her more high profile targets – the president of Ceylon, a few ministers and senators of varying countries – but every time she came out of the shadows to complete a mission, she would disappear right afterwards, eluding all law enforcement. Only half of her kills were even confirmed, the others were mere speculation, with no direct evidence to link her to the crimes.

"I think we are all aware that we cannot just let her go. She is too dangerous, and she knows too much about SHIELD by now." Fury looked up at his agents, noticing Natasha subtly attempting to read the file in front of him, which was upside down from her position. "Not to mention that she is a valuable asset. Fighting skills aside, she also has an in-depth knowledge of crime organization and the black market."

"And how exactly are you going to get her to cooperate?" Natasha asked dubiously. "The moment you let her out of your sight, she will run. And when she does, you won't catch her again."

"I was hoping you could convince her, Romanov."

Natasha looked surprised. "Me? How?" She scoffed, "We might both be Widows, but that is all we have in common."

"You know better than anyone else what it takes to guarantee a Widow's cooperation." Fury pointed out. "I trust you'll figure it out."

"Tash was different." Clint countered. "She _wanted_ out. The girl does not."

"Then find out another way." Fury shrugged. The redhead's mouth thinned in displeasure. "Don't worry, Romanov, you'll have plenty of time to figure it out."

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked cautiously.

Fury stood up with the file in hand, walking around his desk to approach the agents. He handed the file over to Natasha, stating simply, "I'm assigning her to your team."

"What?!" Clint yelped in surprise.

Natasha gave the director a dirty look. "I am NOT training some kid." She stated stubbornly without glancing down at the papers. "Clint and I have a long and established partnership. Any agents that were assigned to our team in the past were either unable to keep up in terms of skill or unable to fall into our team dynamic. Assigning One-seventeen to us would be a disaster."

But Fury was watching agent Barton, who looked less resolute in the decision. The archer was leaning over Natasha's shoulder, eyes flickering over the file. "Tash, when was the last time we even heard rumors about another Widow? Let alone meet one in the flesh?"

The redhead glanced over to her partner.

"Hear me out," Clint held up his hand to forestall her rebuttal. "You and I thought that there were no more survivors of the Red Room, and now we have one two floors down in the med bay. If we don't take her in, then she will find a way to escape, and then we may never have a chance to catch her again. And you and I both know the kind of shit she would get herself into. If I had not convinced you to join SHIELD, where do you think you would be now?"

Natasha's expression became a mix of trepidation and understanding. She would have led the rest of her life as a gun for hire, hands bathed in blood, spending her nights alone and on the run. She could not even imagine her life without Clint at this point.

"Tash... she's one of the last survivors of the Black Widow program." Clint sighed, no doubt aware of the thoughts running through her mind.

Both Clint and Natasha looked down at the photo of the girl, probably taken three or four years prior. She was younger in this image – too young. If they had to guess, One-seventeen was about twelve or thirteen when the picture was taken, all too thin, flat chest, baby fat around her cheeks, with her hair pulled into a low ponytail. She could have passed for a normal teen if not for the look in the girl's eyes, cold and ruthless as she stared up at them, simmering with a rage all too familiar. If she was anything like Natasha had been, she wasn't just lost in the dark - she was drowning in it, her ledger dripping red.

Clint leaned in to whisper in his partner's ear. "I gave you a chance, didn't I? If we don't give her one, who else will?"

"You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, Clint." Natasha hissed at him.

"Perhaps she doesn't know it yet." Clint replied. "You were the same way, right?"

His partner shook her head with a sigh. She muttered something that sounded like ' _fuckin' saint'_ under her breath as she turned back to Fury.

"And what about out missions?" She questioned. "They are not exactly field trip material."

"From what I've read about the girl, your missions are nothing that she has not dealt with before." Fury told her. "She will accompany you as a normal member of the team on your missions. I don't think she will hold you back in the least."

The woman's shoulders slumped in defeat. Taking as a sign of surrender, Clint nodded to their director.

"We accept."

* * *

"Unless, of course, she escapes again."

Clint sighed and massaged his temples while Natasha ran out of the suspiciously empty medical cell and yelled for the guards. The two guards which should have been posted outside of One-seventeen's room had been their first tip that something was off. After that, the two agents were not too surprised to find the empty cell.

 _Still…_ Clint thought with increasing frustration, _How the hell did she escape those cuffs? The first time I understand, that set may have had an electronic key, but they had a hinge which could have been exploited with the right application of pressure. But the last set of cuffs… Someone must have released her._

Natasha's hurried footsteps drew Clint's attention away from the vacant hospital bed. He turned to look at her, and tensed at the severe expression on her face.

"All of the guards in the medical sector are dead." She said with a flat voice, eyes hard. "Their bodies were piled into one of the cells. No blood trail."

 _Fuck._ Clint growled inwardly as he fell into step next to his partner as they pulled out their respective weapons and armed themselves, all the while walking quickly towards Fury's office.

They encountered no suspicious activity on their way there – in fact, it seemed like the rest of the personnel seemed unaware of the situation. Most likely, Clint and Natasha had been the first on the scene. They quickened their pace; hopefully they could get Fury to apply some damage control before the crew on the ship panicked. The recent surprise attack had already rattled plenty of nerves.

The two agents practically spilled into Fury's room, their director turning to face them with his usual scowl. But before he could open his mouth to berate them, Clint spoke first.

"We have a problem."

* * *

"Heh."

One-seventeen chuckled to herself as she calmly walked next to a uniformed guard. She herself had changed into a SHIELD uniform, helmet tipped to cast a shadow over her face, hand casually remaining close to her gun holster, which she had also stolen off of one of the guards they had killed.

 _I'm impressed._ _To think he has spies even within SHIELD. Wonder how he did it._ She thought as she regarded the stoic man beside her, a rather quiet young man with short brown hair, dull brown eyes, and a plain face overall (all perfect traits for infiltration). _Still sucks though. Looks like I'm in his debt again._

Her gaze was drawn back to the scene in front of her. They were now exiting hallway into one of the helicarrier's flight hangars, planes and jets parked just beneath the surface of the ship's deck. However it was not a plane they were looking for.

The man wordlessly led her towards the side hangar. She pauses to shoot a displeased glance at the capsule before her.

 _Ugh, I hate drop pods._ She frowns.

"This ship is currently pulling into SHIELD headquarters in New York City. We're currently somewhere between the lower bay and Sandy Hook Bay." The man explains, speaking to her only the second time since he entered her cell and told her who he worked for. "They'll be entering the upper bay in less than an hour. Which means you'll be landing in coastal waters, just off the coast of Staten Island. I trust you can swim?"

She makes a scoffing sound.

"Thought so." The man agreed. "I've already stuffed supplies for you within this pod. My employer will wait twenty-four hours for you to find him at the designated meeting place. If you do not appear, he will hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah."

One-seventeen nods and holds back a grimace as she ambles towards one of the open pods. It was basically a metal cocoon, equipped with a small parachute and shock absorbers. A special ops carrier for delivering soldiers quickly and stealthily into occupied territory. Hardly comfortable at all, but certainly effective.

"It is our only shot at getting you out of here unnoticed." The man reminds her, noticing her slip of hesitancy. "We must hurry."

With a nod she climbs in, fitting herself into the semi-sitting, semi-standing position that the seat provides. She tightens the straps of her helmet and clenches her jaw as the lid of the pod hisses and lowers down over her head. The infiltrator stands in front of her, still visible through the slit of shatter-proof glass fitted to be at eye-level for the operative inside. One-seventeen buckles herself in and nods at her collaborator. The man lifts the plastic cover over the eject button, and pushes it.

The ejection door beneath the capsule slides open, and metal arms which secure the drop pod begin to lower. And then –

She's falling.

One-seventeen can't help but yelp in a half-scream as her stomach flips, a moment of suspense and weightlessness before gravity takes over, and the weight of metal drags her down to earth from miles above.

 _Open your eyes._ She tells herself, grasping the handles until her knuckles turn white.

Shaking her head, One-seventeen looks out the small window, attempting to get an idea of the environment which she will find herself in.

At first, all she sees is water. But as she falls closer to earth, she can see the shoreline growing larger on the horizon. She must have dropped at an angle then, probably with the help of winds, too. Her gaze glues to the counter to her right, eye-level, the numbers steadily decreasing as it measures her dropping altitude. When the numbers hit the designated altitude, she feels the hull shudder as the metal cap of the pod pops open, and the capsule lurches as the parachute is deployed.

 _Still coming in fast._

She frowns and her fingers dance across the small keypad placed near her right hand. The capsule shudders again as she activates the mini-thrusters located on the bottom of the drop-pod. The capsule lurches again as it fights against gravity, and she notices with some relief that her momentum has slowed dramatically.

Her gaze flashes back to the countdown.

 _Brace for impact._

The drop-pod collides with the water, the entire thing shuddering with such intensity that she worries it might actually crack. Somehow, though, it stays intact. One-seventeen grits her teeth and grips the handles with all her might.

For a moment, the world goes black as her pod dives into the water due to the speed of its landing, submerged in the ocean until the waves spit her back out. She must wait another couple minutes before the capsule stops lurching every five seconds, and finally is lulled into the motion of the waves.

When it stabilizes, she quickly types into the keypad once again. The sound of moving metal whirs softly as the thrusters beneath her pod shift. She switches to air thrust, and slowly increases output until she finds a slow but steady pace which won't endanger the pod to tipping over despite the currents.

After landing on the shoreline, she leaps out and somehow finds the strength to drag the capsule into the tree line, hiding it within the foliage by half-burying it and covering it with several 'fallen' trees.

The supplies she had been given contains some food, a change of clothes, a map, and weapons (of course). With her supplies stuffed into a small duffel bag, she slings it over her shoulder and pauses.

 _Nighttime huh?_ Her gaze studies the stars, calculating her position and the direction she must go. The clouds in the sky are lightened to the northwest, reflecting light from whatever city sleeps below.

* * *

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE ESCAPED AGAIN?!"

Both Natasha and Clint must resist the urge to flinch in the wake of Fury's… fury.

Their director roared as he slammed his hands onto his desk, pens rattling, a few papers flying, and one paperweight tipping precariously near the edge of the desk.

"Damn this girl!" Fury growled, although his expression and tone told them that he was grudgingly impressed. "She's making my entire facility of highly-trained secret agents look like a bunch of airheaded dimwits!"

Both Natasha and Clint looked affronted, which would have amused Fury in any other situation.

The director pulled up the security cameras onto the giant screen at the front of his office, which doubled as the window which looked out over the control room of the helicarrier. Scenes from One-seventeen's escape were splayed across it, playing over and over again. Yet none of them revealed the face of her accomplice: he was still on the ship.

When Fury had attempted to zoom in on the man's uniform, he had realized that the identification numbers and tags had been removed. In other words, it had been a blank uniform, rendering the infiltrator untraceable. As if he wasn't already pissed off as it was!

Natasha and Clint focused their gaze on the scene of One-seventeen's exit, the image of her climbing into a drop-pod and disappearing replaying itself like mockery.

"Find her."

They turned to face Fury as he growled.

"Find her, and either bring her back alive... or kill her." He looked over his shoulder to focus his eye upon them. "Either way, she knows too much. She is now a threat to the entire existence of SHIELD."


	9. Chapter 8: Turncoat

**Hey hey! Look how fast I updated this time! (which means I was avoiding schoolwork again... *glances furtively at homework*)**

 **Anyway, here's another action-packed chapter, full of espionage, betrayal, and One-seventeen's emotional ineptitude. Hope you all enjoy!**

 **I DON'T OWN MARVEL. OBVIOUSLY.**

* * *

 _I'm counter-clockwise,_

 _And time moves forward._

 _I'm shying, pushing,_

 _I keep running backward circles._

 _I'm reaching, shoving - nowhere to go._

* * *

" _Hello? Who's this? This is a restricted number-"_

" _I don't have time to explain!" A feminine voice gasps. "I need you to connect me to the director!"_

" _I can't authorize-"_

" _Please!" The woman nearly screams. "It's an urgent matter! My handler has been compromised and they will find me if I contact SHIELD through official channels!"_

" _Then I must verify-"_

" _DO IT NOW!"_

 _The man on the other end of the phone pauses to stare uncertainly at the speaker on the phone, before glancing around the control room. The rest of his coworkers are calm, likely unaware of his unusual situation on the phone._

 _It might be a bad idea, but if this woman really is a SHIELD agent, and she really is in trouble…_

 _The man makes up his mind, quickly muttering 'okay' in the receiver before standing up and walking towards the stairs that lead to the control deck._

" _Jim, you going somewhere?" His coworker asks him as he passes him._

" _Yeah, just something I need to take care of real quick. I'll be back soon." He assures his friend as he walks quickly but calmly towards the door behind the deck._

 _The door slides open, and he breaks into a run the moment it shuts behind him, running up the stairwell and towards the door of Fury's office. He halts momentarily to knock on the door, pausing just long enough to hear Fury grunt 'come in' before rushing through the door._

" _Did you need something, agent?" Fury asks him with an intimidating scowl._

" _Sir, I have a phone call for you." He replies without preamble, holding up his cellphone and hoping this wouldn't get him demoted. Or killed. "It's urgent."_

 _Fury frowns at the sight of the non-governmental device. "On your personal cell? That is not authorized."_

" _She says that she cannot contact you through registered channels." He quickly explains. "She implied it might compromise her position."_

 _Fury's frown darkened, but he nevertheless nodded and held out his hand to accept the phone. With just a look, the director ordered the man to exit his office. When the door shut behind the agent, Fury brought the phone to his ear._

" _Alright, who is this?" He asked._

 _At first the line was silent, as if holding its breath. Then –_

" _Hello Fury."_

" _You– !"_

" _Let's make a deal."_

* * *

The air was filled with the smell of people, smog, exhaust, fast food, and perfume. Her ears rang with honking cars, idle chatter, the clanging of metal from a construction site, and someone's dog was barking to her left. There was color everywhere, contrasting with the gray of pavement, neon lights, advertisements, the various styles of clothing that the pedestrians swarming around her wore. The light was unusually intense for a location this far north, the sunlight reflected back and forth between the glass windows of the skyscrapers, extending into the sky and closing in around her like impenetrable walls.

It was all too much for her senses to handle. She fought back the panic of claustrophobia, her stomach churning.

Pushing past the crowds of the shopping district to enter one of the many malls built into the skyscrapers, she glances at the map at the entrance to confirm her destination. One look, and a snapshot of the image is burned in her mind, and she follows it robotically. Take a right, first elevator, get off at the third floor, and enter the café.

' _Ma Petite Dame'_ is the name of the quaint French-themed café, the façade of the restaurant was toned-down baroque architecture, with curling scrollwork at the edges of the doors and windows glimpsing the interior of the café, the walls painted with a mural of the French countryside, pastel flowers swaying in an invisible wind.

She walks past the entrance of the café twice, carefully glancing through the windows to study the diners within, and also observing those who loitered outside the restaurant. Two suspicious figures were located outside, one just beyond the restaurant's walls casually leaning on a strip of brick which separated _Ma Petit Dame_ from the store next to it and pretending to text on his phone. The other was posing as a pedestrian shopper, however they had walked down this particular stretch of mall four times already, and were on their fifth round, chatting on their phone and lugging around shopping bags that were probably filled with just tissue paper. She could tell just from the way they walked that they were also packing heat.

 _Sloppy._ She thought. Still, he had her cornered, didn't he? She could not sneak into the restaurant, as he had specifically left orders for her to request a seat with his alias. One-seventeen walked slowly back towards the café, this time discarding the coat she had been covering up with onto one of the benches, pulling off her beanie and taking her hair out of its ponytail. Looking like a completely different person, she made her third trip towards _Ma Petit Dame_ , head up and walking with a slight sway to her hips, plastering a carefree smile onto her lips.

"Can I help you, madam?" The hostess asked her as she approached the doors to the café, the woman's eyes flitting over her neat clothing and designer purse and already buttering her up.

"Yes, I am here to meet with a date." One-seventeen replied, giving a little giggle for effect, eyes shining with girlish flirtation. "A table with Mister LeBlanc, please."

The woman glanced over her list of guests, eyes locking on the requested name and nodding. Grabbing a spare menu, the woman smiled amiably towards One-seventeen. "Follow me, please."

They enter the café, passing small tables where young girls are chattering excitedly, couples are making goo-goo eyes, and the occasional family luncheon. The tables are littered with overly-priced small plates, miniature versions of various salads, quiche, and French pastries. It's all rather pretentious, really.

"Here you are. Have fun on your date!" The hostess tells her with false cheer, handing One-seventeen the menu before briskly walking back to her post.

It's a small two-person table seated in the corner of the restaurant, next to the windows which looked out over the New York streets below, the people skittering to and fro like ants, the cars colorful beetles, and the city their jungle. Her 'date' is sitting with his back to the adjacent wall, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Again, how pretentious. Yet how very like him.

"Monsieur." She switches to French as she takes a seat. " _Je l'avoue, je suis assez surpris."_

"Speak English, _ma chère_ _._ " The man sighed from behind the newspaper before folding them down and meeting her face to face. "We don't need to arouse the interest of others while we are here."

She hummed in agreement as she leaned back to greet the waiter as he approached. The young man poured them each a glass of water, and they quickly ordered two coffees and a plate of hors-d'oeuvres. She took that moment to study the infamous Francois Devereux, spymaster extraordinaire. He had aristocratic features, with a high forehead, thin face, and softly curved cheekbones. His lips were pursed in a thin line, nose slightly hooked, and close-cropped black hair slicked with gel and combed to the side. He was a passingly handsome man, if a little plain at first, wearing a designer suit, a coat draped over the back of his chair, Italian leather shoes tapping the floor. What made him unique, however, was the cunning glint in his eyes, and a knack for pushing all the right buttons. He was a puppet master, hidden in the shadows and pulling all the strings.

"I'm surprised you came all the way to America. I know you hate leaving your beloved France." She mused, encircling the rim of her water goblet with her finger.

" _Ma chère_ ," Francois Devereux drawled in a bland tone as he accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter and began to measure the appropriate amount of crème. "It was the least I could do."

"You came out of your little hidey-hole just for little 'ole me? I suppose I should be flattered." She touched the goblet of water to her lips, allowing the water to hit the tip of her upper lip and pretending to swallow. She glanced up through her eyelashes to catch the direction of Francois' gaze.

"I'd do anything for you, _ma chère._ " He responded dryly, finally taking sip of his coffee with all the delicacy of an experienced wine taster, savoring the flavor for a second before swallowing and nodding approvingly. She almost rolled her eyes at his fussiness.

"Now then," One-seventeen murmured, lowering her voice and leaning her elbow on the table and cupping her cheek. "Why are we here, Devereux?"

"I think you know the answer to that." The Frenchman replied in a posh tone.

Now she really did roll her eyes. "How many times must I reject your offer, _monsieur_?"

"You owe me, _ma chère_." He told her pointedly.

Now she scoffed. "Not enough to warrant my loyalty. I may help you out with a bit of information, maybe even a mission, but not a permanent placement in your network."

"You were the best agent I ever had," Francois stated with a serious look, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while sipping from his coffee cup. "And –"

"And my betrayal inspires no ill-will whatsoever?" One-seventeen asked with a raised brow.

"It can be overlooked." He sniffed in response.

She smirked. "Oh I doubt that. I know you too well, Devereux. You're a cunning bastard."

"Then perhaps you never should have betrayed me in the first place." He bit back with growing irritation, his tone short.

 _Ah, and so the mask slips._ She chuckled inwardly. "Oh please. As if you ever could have held off the Soviets if I had defected. Don't be a fool."

"While true at the time," The Frenchman nods, "It is no longer the case now. Your deceit can be overlooked in light of the Soviet problem, but –"

"I already sold my soul to one devil." One-seventeen drawled in a bored tone. "I'm afraid there is nothing left for a second. My final answer is 'no'."

"Do you realize the consequences of your choice?" Francois asked her with a darkening expression, and her eyes caught his fingers tapping the spoon.

 _A signal._ She hummed and nodded. "I do."

Out of the corner her eye, she noticed various customers within the café begin to shift and tense, their hands reaching for purses and pockets. She locked eyes with the Frenchman and smirked. "Which is why I brought back up."

Francois froze. "W-What?"

And then his phone rang.

He glanced down at his coat that hung behind him on the chair. Glancing up at the falsely cheerful smile on the girl's face, he reached back and pulled his cellphone from the inner coat pocket.

"Go on, answer it." She encouraged him with a friendly wave of her hand. "I'm sure it's _quite_ important."

A suspicious look on his face, Francois taped the answer key and held the phone to his ear.

" _Monsieur Devereux,"_ Another overly friendly male voice speaks up. _"I wouldn't do anything rash, if I were you. Several of our agents have infiltrated the restaurant, and we have two snipers currently trained on your position."_

The Frenchman's eyes dart over to glare at One-seventeen.

"Y-You…"

She hummed and leaned back into her chair victoriously. Then Francois pauses, a dark smirk sliding across his lips.

"You think I wouldn't factor this into my plans?" He taunted her, holding the cell away from his ear but the phone line still active. "You a slippery woman, _ma chère._ I knew this might happen."

"Which is why you attempted to poison me, no? Thinking that you could blackmail me into joining you in exchange for the antidote." She cut him off, holding up her water goblet, her eyes also flickering to her coffee and the appetizers.

He froze.

"My dear Francois, I am well aware of your talent with poisons." She shook her head at him but kept an amused smile on her face. "You didn't think I actually ingested anything while in your presence?"

"But…" His shocked face was far too entertaining. Then anger took over, and he leaned forward, the hand not holding the phone gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. "You sold me out to SHIELD?! B-But they – you –"

"Well, we aren't exactly buddies, no." She shrugged. "However _you_ are worth a lot of money. And they were very eager to speak to you. How could I say no?"

Francois stood up in anger, and suddenly the entire restaurant was on their feet, SHIELD agents and foreign spies alike filling up the café, like an old-fashioned western saloon standoff. The Frenchman looked around him in surprise, noting that his men were nearly outnumbered by the American agents. Meanwhile, One-seventeen remained unfazed, her finger still circling the rim of her glass of water, glancing up at Francois with a bored expression.

"You haven't changed at all." She sighed, sounding almost disappointed. "Your tactics are good, but outdated, my old friend."

" _Excuse me, Monsieur Devereux."_

Francois growled as the voice on his phone called out once again. "What?!" He barked into the receiver.

" _I suggest you tell your men to stand down. If you don't call them off within the next sixty seconds, we will have our snipers kill you. No doubt your men will surrender once there is no longer an employer to pay them."_

Francois made a 'tch' sound in annoyance and frustration. He glanced back over to the Black Widow sitting across from him, her body still relaxed and unconcerned as ever. Her elbow sat on top of the arm of her seat, knuckles pressed against her cheekbone, leaning to the side and slouching ever-so-slightly as she gazed out the window. If he didn't know her better, he might even describe her expression as wistful, although it was always hard to judge with that poker face of hers. It always pissed him off how unfazed she remained no matter the situation.

"Fine…" The Frenchman growled into the phone, looking back over to his men and holding up his hand. "Stand down everyone." He closed his eyes and a self-deprecating smile slipped onto his face. "You outmaneuvered me again, _ma_ _chère_ _._ How embarrassing."

One-seventeen hummed, but he could not tell if she was agreeing with him or simply amused. She finally pushed back her chair and stood up in such a way that she seemed to flow like liquid into an upright stance, somehow slouching and standing in one lazily graceful movement. It had been one of the traits that had originally taken his interest when they had met so long ago: her ability to appear lazy and uncaring, all the while making one's instincts scream in terror.

" _Monsieur Devereux,"_ Francois grit his teeth as the annoying voice on the phone spoke up once more, _"Put the woman on the phone, if you please."_

Stiffly, the Frenchman handed the phone over to One-seventeen. She accepted without even a blink of surprise, holding the phone up to her ear with the delicacy that one might hold a fine porcelain tea cup.

"Hm?" She asked wordlessly. Her gaze once again slid to the windows, her eyes immediately glancing up at the rooftop of the building on her ten o'clock, no doubt guessing the location of their voyeur with unerring accuracy. "Mister Coulson, I assume?"

The voice on the phone chuckled, both surprised and amused. _"You really are a Widow, aren't you?"_

"What kind of question is that?" It didn't really sound like a question given how flat her tone fell.

" _I guess Romanov was right. You are very good."_ The agent Coulson said to her. _"You are looking right at me, aren't you? Even from this far away."_

"I am simply observant." One-seventeen replied without any inflection, her earlier attitude falling away to reveal the blank expression that was her true personality – an emotionless soldier devoid of self. Her earlier acting had been to push Francois into losing his control, and with that done, she could discard her metaphorical mask.

 _If I had been observing this situation, I would have chosen the exact same spot._ She thought to herself. It was how any Widow would have done it, and that other Widow no doubt advised their positions. "Now then, can we get this over with?"

" _Ah yes. Leave our men to apprehend the hired men. You bring Francois to us. Do that, and the deal is sealed."_

"Understood." She nodded, hanging up the phone.

There was a moment of pause, as if time held its breath as she met the Frenchman's gaze. Then his hand snapped to his pocket – where she knew he held his suicide pills. Too bad, she had no intention of allowing that to happen. The world narrowed down to just her and him, and before Francois was even able to touch his pocket she had jumped over the table, ramming into him and knocking him to the floor. She landed on top of him, straddling his body, her hand already grasping his forehead and slamming his head back against the floor.

He was knocked out instantly.

Francois' men put up little fight against the SHIELD agents, most of them realizing it was a losing battle and that if they cooperated with the Americans they might be able to escape jail time. One-seventeen hefted the man over her shoulder with little visible effort, walking past the curious faces of the American agents and the bitter faces of the thugs without a glance.

Exiting the restaurant, the mall was empty, SHIELD agents having evacuated the citizens and took temporary control of the building. She stepped into the elevator and selected the top floor, dropping the unconscious spymaster to the floor so that she could lean against the wall and cross her arms with a sigh.

 _Idiot got heavier in the past few years._ She thought, glancing at the slight pudge visible above his belt.

The elevator dinged as she reached the final floor, the doors sliding open to reveal one very displeased archer. Which reminded her, she never did learn his name… _The one that caught me, huh? Did they think I would be intimidated by him?_

"Oh?" One-seventeen mused at the sight of him. "It's you, huh?"

He glared at her for a moment, before his eyes caught sight of Francois' body slumped on the floor, propped up in the corner of the elevator. His lips twitched in what might have been a smile.

"Heh," The agent couldn't help but chuckle. "Please tell me he's not dead."

"No." She replied stoically as she leaned down to grab his suit and haul him onto her shoulder. No doubt it was a comical sight, a petite woman carrying a full-grown man on her shoulder without concern.

The archer looked surprised at her move. "Uh, do you want me to carry him? He looks a little heavy –"

"Let's go." She said, ignoring his strange behavior, brushing past him.

"W-Wha… Hey! I was just trying to be nice!" He protested, catching up to her, muttering 'brat' under his breath.

"Don't bother." She told him curtly, approaching a door that read ' _Roof Access – Restricted: Personnel Only_ '. She twisted the knob, not surprised that it was unlocked, and entered to begin making her way to the roof. She heard him grunt as the door almost swung shut on him.

"Could have at least held the door open…" She heard him mutter.

"Not when I'm carrying the body." She replied to him dryly. He was silent for a moment, perhaps surprised that she heard him. Then he began to mutter under his breath, usually something that had to do with 'brat'.

"You know I _can_ hear you, right?" She drawled over her shoulder as she kicked open the door to the roof, taking in the sight of a helicopter, a familiar redhead leaning against the door, arms and ankles crossed, glancing up at her with a displeased look, very similar to her partner before.

One-seventeen walked confidently across the rooftop, leaving the archer to stutter to himself.

"Please tell me he's not dead." The Widow said when she came close to her, echoing her partner's earlier question.

"No." One-seventeen passed her without slowing down, throwing the unconscious Francois into the helicopter, seemingly unconcerned at the way he flopped onto the floor like a ragdoll.

"Not a very gentle person, are you?" The archer asked her as he approached from behind.

One-seventeen turned around to look at him with a blank face. "Why does it matter? He's a prisoner."

"Americans treat their prisoners very differently from Russians…" Romanov sighed and shook her head at the girl.

One-seventeen merely shrugged at that.

The three of them then climbed into the helicopter, Natasha was piloting, the archer in the co-pilot's seat, and One-seventeen sitting in the back, shaking her head in exasperation as she buckled the unconscious Francois into the seat next to her, as per the Americans' insistence.

* * *

" _A mission assignment?" Clint asked in surprise as he and Natasha entered Fury's office, surprised to find Coulson already there._

" _Shouldn't we be focusing on the girl?" Natasha asked in equal surprise. "Assign someone else to the mission?"_

" _I'm getting to that." Fury snapped at them, and the two agents closed their mouths and backed down._

" _It's a capture and rescue assignment." Fury explained to them as a 3D map of New York flickered to life above the computerized table before them. The map zoomed in on a specific street, highlighting the third floor of one of the skyscrapers and outlining a box shape that was probably one of the offices within it._

" _Your mission is to capture international criminal mastermind Francois Devereux –"_

" _Devereux?!" Both Natasha and Clint exclaimed in surprise, and even Coulson looked shocked._

" _He actually came out into the open?" Natasha continued, then shook her head in amazement. "That man hasn't been seen in public in almost seven years!"_

 _Fury frowned at them, an early warning that they all need to 'shut the fuck up now' before he got annoyed at them all._

" _Yes, with the help of our little friend…" He replied._

 _The three agents glanced at each other in confusion._

" _One-seventeen contacted me yesterday." Fury finally told them, ignoring their various exclamations of surprise. "She escaped with the help of Francois Devereux, however she tells me that he will likely attempt to blackmail her into working with him, or else keep her captive until she agrees."_

" _He came out for_ _ **her**_ _?" Clint asked, his brows flying into his hairline._

" _And she would betray her savior?" Natasha also spoke up in surprise, suspicion evident on her face. "Even after he helped her?"_

" _She tells me that their past relationship is a complicated one, but didn't go into detail." Fury shrugged, knowing that it was pointless to attempt to guess the inner workings of a Widow's mind. "Anyway, she was adamant that she would rather be our prisoner than his. Not to mention that helping bring in Francois Devereux would no doubt gain her favor from SHIELD and its superiors."_

" _Increasing her chances of being treated like an agent and not a prisoner." Natasha nodded in understanding._

 _Clint wrinkled his nose at that. He was never good at reading that far into people's actions. He may have been a trained assassin, but Natasha had been trained in psychology and manipulation, in addition to the art of torture and killing. He preferred people to just be blunt, instead of playing smoke and mirrors._

" _So I take it she is the one we will also be rescuing?" Natasha asked their director._

 _Fury nodded. "Correct. They will be meeting in a French café on the third floor of Marlot Mall, which is this department here." He pointed to the outlined store on the third floor of the west side of the building. "She also told us he will likely sit in this corner, with his back to the wall and facing away from the setting sun. He will also probably fill the entire restaurant with his people, so we should be prepared to do the same."_

" _She knows him that well?" Coulson finally spoke up, his brows raised in amusement. "They must have known each other for quite a while, then."_

" _She requested two snipers," Fury continued to tell them, the map zooming out and placing two yellow markers on buildings opposite the mall. "Saying that one sniper would not faze him, but that two would make him hesitate."_

" _So are we going to take him out?" Clint asked, his inner sniper getting excited._

" _No." Fury replied, and Clint visibly pouted. "_ _ **She**_ _will bring him to us. You two will be her escape route." The map zoomed upwards, showing a hologram of a helicopter waiting on the roof of the mall._

" _So we're her chauffeurs?" Clint nearly whined. Natasha elbowed him with a scowl and he winced. "Just sayin'. This won't be fun at all."_

 _Natasha rolled her eyes at him._

" _I need everyone to take this seriously." Fury reprimanded them in a scolding tone. "This may be our only chance to capture Devereux. If he escapes, not only will he take One-seventeen with him, but he will disappear like he did seven years ago. This is unacceptable."_

 _All three agents straightened and nodded at that._

" _Once he is in our custody, we can question him about the ambush from last week." Fury continued. "Even if he isn't behind it, I'm sure he'll have an idea of who was. Plus, if he has contacts within SHIELD, he no doubt has contacts within the other two groups that One-seventeen warned us about."_

" _A win-win, hm?" Coulson nodded, a small but pleased smile on his face. "I like that."_

" _And what about the girl?" Natasha asked, changing the subject._

 _All the three agents looked to their director._

 _Fury sighed and crossed his arms, his gaze distant._

" _She will helps us for as long as it benefits her." He finally concluded. "We can use her, but we can't afford to trust her. So we'll play along… for now."_

* * *

 **Character analysis: Don't be surprised by One-seventeen's seemingly bi-polar behavior. As she was raised to be a weapon, her sense of individuality was stomped out so that she would follow orders without question. And since she has been a spy since childhood, she lost her sense of self because she was constantly pretending to be someone else. To her, emotions are just another tool to use against others, so she has a hard time separating what she really feels from emotions that she is imitating. Her only constant in life is the need to survive.**

 **Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. We'll find out more about Francois in the next chapter.**

 **Please leave a review!**


	10. Chapter 9: Nebulae

**Aaaaand we're back! No action in this chapter, unfortunately, but definitely some plot encouragement.**

 **I don't own any Marvel material.**

* * *

 _Scars are souvenirs you never lose_

 _The past is never far_

 _Did you lose yourself somewhere out there?_

 _Did you get to be a star?_

 _We grew up way too fast_

 _And now there's nothing to believe_

* * *

After arriving at the helicarrier and an unconscious Francois was dropped off in the holding deck, Natasha and Clint escorted One-seventeen to Fury's office. The girl had been unnervingly silent for the entire helicopter ride, ignoring Clint's pestering attempts to socialize and appearing clueless of how tense Natasha was in her presence.

"Director." Natasha and Clint greeted Fury simultaneously, saluting him as the three spies entered the director's office. One-seventeen merely dipped her head, still being an outsider to their ranks.

"Romanov, Barton…" He glanced at the girl. "One-seventeen. Good job today."

They all shrugged at that.

Fury couldn't help but notice the slight tension that strange look on Agent Romanov's face as she stood beside the younger Widow. Upon further inspection, Fury was highly amused to note that the two woman were standing in the same position: legs braced apart, standing straight, shoulders back, with their hands always hovering close to the weapons sheathed at their hips in faux casualty.

 _Soldiers through and through._ He noted, wondering if the position was standard for the Black Widow ranks.

"SHIELD will commence the interrogation of Devereux momentarily. But that is no longer of any concern to you." Fury began as he took a seat at his desk, eyeing One-seventeen for any sign of empathy towards her old contact. Her face remained completely uncaring, however, and Fury wondered if she even felt an ounce of remorse for turning an old comrade in. Probably not.

"Now our main concern is you, girl." Fury made eye contact with the younger woman in the room.

She looked him straight in the eye without hesitation, her face remaining still save for blinking and breathing. "We made a deal, no?"

"Yes, we did, and I do intend to fulfill it." Fury nodded, noting that both Natasha and Clint were eyeing them both with great interest. "However there are some ground rules we must establish."

One-seventeen nodded for him to go on.

"You do realize that by agreeing to work for SHIELD, you are renouncing any former loyalties, including to the Soviet Union and their successors, as well as any criminal or other organization you have former ties to?" Fury asked her.

She nodded. "I am aware."

"And you realize that by renouncing all previous loyalties that you will become an agent of SHIELD, a full member of the United States military? And that you agree to heed the chain of command within this organization, to adhere to your officers and obey their orders?"

Again, the woman nodded.

"Good." Fury nodded. "However, there is one problem with accepting you into SHIELD – your identity."

The two SHIELD agents across from him looked equal parts worried and confused, while One-seventeen tilted her head to give him a rather cat-like look.

"What identity?" She asked.

Fury nodded. "Exactly."

A look of understanding dawned on Natasha's face, and she nodded along in agreement with the director.

"Huh?" Clint glanced between them, looking very lost, the poor man.

"I'm gonna have to file a lot of paperwork to make you a SHIELD agent. Name, background, you get the gist. The thing is – and I had this same problem with Natasha – you Widows don't _have_ an identity. The Soviets scrubbed all evidence of your existence from this earth from the moment you were taken into the Red Room. No birth certificates, no parental forms, nada." Fury pulled open one of his desk drawers and pulled out the file that he had for One-seventeen, flipping it open and sighing at the sight of how thin and blank the papers were.

"So what do you want us to do about it?" Natasha finally spoke up. "You had enough on me to bring a case to the Council, but we don't have nearly enough on One-seventeen to make a case for her."

Fury nodded. "Which is why we need to create an identity for her."

"And by that you mean…?" Clint trailed off.

"I don't want rumors spreading that SHIELD has another Widow under its command." Fury explained to them. "As far as the rest of this organization knows, One-seventeen is just another asset you two happened to pick up during an op."

"You're not even going to tell the Council?" Natasha exclaimed, looking uncomfortable with the decision.

Fury shook his head. "No. They know that you follow my orders out of personal respect for me, but One-seventeen is a blank slate –" They all glanced at the unconcerned girl still standing casually off to the side – "And I am not taking any chances that they might reassign her to become their personal assassin."

"It would probably pay better…" One-seventeen murmured to herself, and actually looked like she was considering the offer.

Fury gave his agents a pointed look. "See what I mean? The girl is not humanized enough to know right from wrong."

"She's a Widow." Clint deadpanned. "She only knows to follow orders, not morals – no offence, Tash." He gave his partner an apologetic look, but Natasha only shrugged in agreement.

(One-seventeen huffed. "I'm right here, y'know.")

"Which is why I wanted her assigned to your team. However we need to make a new identity for her." Fury told them, ignoring the girl and pulling out another stack of papers. "You all are dismissed for now. I have shit to do. Go and brainstorm about One-seventeen's new backstory, will ya?"

Natasha and Clint exchanged exasperated glances, and then nodded and saluted at their director. With a muttered 'come on' to One-seventeen, they dragged the girl out of Fury's office and began walking back to the living quarters.

Walking through the halls of SHIELD, whispers followed them as they passed by other soldiers and agents. It was not unusual whenever Clint and Natasha returned from a mission, as they were infamous as SHIELD's top agents, however this time the gossip was inspired by an entirely different subject. Even Agent Hill gave the young Black Widow a wary look as they passed her desk after exiting Fury's office.

Entering the barracks, Natasha and Clint automatically began dressing down from their mission, stripping off their armor, unsheathing (most) of their weapons and putting them back in the metal weapon lockers which lined one side of the room.

The barracks were a strange mix of a futuristic college dorm and military barracks. The walls were not white-washed like how One-seventeen usually pictured military living quarters, but made of the same metal as the helicarrier, a bluish-grey metal that had a dull sheen similar to platinum (although the walls were probably made with a stronger metal than that). The floor was also metal, covered with a thin black carpet in a pathetic attempt to break the monotony of the room, but which did not reach all four corners of the room. The room was lit by those awful florescent lights that always gave her a headache, running in horizontal lines across the ceiling and caged by thin metal wires.

They were standing in what seemed to be a common room of some sort, with several hallways branching off from the room through which One-seventeen could see individual rooms for the soldiers. The room itself doubled as a living space and an equipment room – obviously not an armory where all the heavy weapons and armor were stored, but there were still weapons lockers along the wall and a few Kevlar vests hanging off to the side. Judging from how Natasha and Clint were putting their things away there, it would seem this was some sort of personal armory.

On the opposite side of the room was a small, flat-screen television set, with a worn out sofa sitting in front of it, and a kitchenette tucked into the corner of the room, complete with a microwave, a stovetop, a few cabinets, and a large fridge that seemed to loom over the rest of the kitchen area.

One-seventeen wondered if any of the soldiers actually cooked instead of going to the ship's cafeteria. She imagined that the soldiers were usually too busy to cook their own meals.

It didn't take the two agents very long to notice that One-seventeen had remained standing still by the entrance of the room, studying her surroundings with object interest and clearly hesitant about further intruding into the room. And then Natasha realized, with a jolt, that the girl had never been to the living quarters before. Her previous time in the helicarrier was spent either in the holding cells or the hospital ward. Fury probably had yet to assign her a room, too.

"Clint," The redhead turned to her partner, who was currently re-stocking the arrows in his quiver.

"M-hm?" Clint hummed absently, still distracted.

"Find an empty room for One-seventeen. Preferably one near us."

"M-hm… Wait, what?" Clint's head snapped up and away from his gear.

Natasha jerked her head in the direction of One-seventeen, whose eyes were currently studying the kitchen with a strange intensity. What an odd girl.

"Oh, right." Clint sighed, putting his stuff down and walking down one of the hallways, scratching the back of his head as he tried to remember which rooms were empty.

At the same time, Natasha turned to the younger Widow and motioned for her to come further into the room. Motioning towards the weapons lockers, Natasha began explaining a few things to the young woman.

"It's no armory, but this is where we store our regular and some emergency equipment. That way, if the ship is taken over and we are cut off from the armory, we aren't left completely defenseless." Natasha then motioned towards the kitchenette. "The fridge is the most used section of the kitchen, and the microwave is usually reserved for instant ramen or frozen meals. If someone is feeling adventurous, they might even use the stove to make pasta."

The young brunette blinked at her with a bored expression. Natasha inwardly sighed, knowing the girl was probably ignoring her and filtering out all of the useless information. Natasha hated small talk, but the complete silence that stood between her and the other Widow was unnerving to say the least.

Glancing over the girl's ragged clothing – she had yet to change out of the civilian clothing she had worn when they had apprehended Francois – Natasha motioned for her to follow as she walked in the direction Clint had gone, saying, "We'll have to take you to the labs to get you a proper SHIELD suit and assign a couple firearms to you."

That seemed to catch the girl's attention as she finally made eye contact with the redhead and nodded. The doors to the individual rooms had no doorknobs, instead there was an electronic sensor placed on the wall next to them, which Natasha swiped her palm over. The sensor picked up on the chip that was contained within her SHIELD ID card hanging from her belt, and the door slid open to reveal Natasha's personal room.

It was rather plain and Spartan, grey metal walls and floor, a single bed with grey bedsheets, immaculately folded with crisp corners and a single pillow. The nightstand beside the bed was also made of metal, three drawers with a lamp sitting on top of it and a single book beside it, whose title One-seventeen did not care to make out.

"You can't keep walking around the ship wearing civilian clothes, however." Natasha said as she led the brunette into her room. "Especially looking like we just picked you up off the streets."

"It wouldn't be far from the truth." One-seventeen finally spoke, thinking back on the night she had been apprehended in Buenos Aires.

"It's just a saying." Natasha shrugged, unapologetic. The redhead walked over to her rather small closet, which held maybe two or three civilian outfits, and the rest were identical SHIELD uniforms. Pulling out one of the aforementioned uniforms, Natasha tossed it at One-seventeen, who caught it easily and stared at it in confusion.

"Until then, you can wear one of mine." Natasha told her, amazed when One-seventeen looked up at her with a completely shocked expression.

"Why?" The girl asked, immediately suspicious.

"Do I need a reason?" Natasha raised a brow at the girl. "I'm not giving it away, just loaning it to you until we can get you your own."

It appeared that One-seventeen did not understand the concept of charity, as the girl's face twitched as if it couldn't decide what expression to show. Almond eyes flickered down to the uniform in her hands, holding the uniform up to stare at it with narrowed eyes.

"I… see." One-seventeen finally replied.

 _No you don't._ Natasha thought sadly, watching as the girl hesitantly began to pull off her clothing and dropped them to the floor.

Unsurprisingly, the One-seventeen was covered in scars. They were hard to see usually, as the Red Room had treatments to minimize scar tissue in order to keep their agents as civilian-looking as possible. The result was a network of crisscrossing silvery lines so faint that they were only visible if the light hit them just right, shimmering like a spider's web across her skin. Natasha recognized a few marks as the result of Black Widow training, but there were others that seemed highly unusual, even for a professional assassin.

Natasha's eyes narrowed at the sight of a single, half-centimeter wide line running down the center of One-seventeen's torso, the side of her arms and – if she squinted – even the girl's legs. It was pale, barely noticeable if one did not know what to look for.

One-seventeen began to step into the one-piece SHIELD suit, but Natasha stopped her before she began to pull up the zipper.

"What is this?" The older Widow asked the brunette, tapping the faint vertical scar on the girl's sternum.

The girl stepped back from Natasha, pushing her hand away.

"You know the Red Room liked to experiment." One-seventeen replied stiffly, but would say no more on the matter.

Natasha's frown deepened, but she knew better than to pry further. Still, white-hot anger flashed through her chest, as she was well aware of the Red Room's inhumane practices. But when a Widow refused to talk, there was nothing left to be done about the matter.

A knock sounded on the door; Clint no doubt. One-seventeen finished zipping up the SHIELD uniform, surprised that it fit quite well, if a little big around the hips. Nodding at the redhead, Natasha turned to the door and called, "Come in."

The door automatically slid open, allowing her partner into the room. Clint paused at the sight of One-seventeen in Natasha's uniform, his eyes flickering to the redhead in question before clearing his throat.

"My room is across from Natasha's. In fact, this whole end of the hallway belongs to the two of us." He led the girl back into the hallway which she had noticed earlier did not have as many rooms as the other hallways. Was this the hall reserved for SHIELD's top agents?

"Anyway," Clint motioned to the next door down from Natasha's room, "I called up Fury and had him assign you this room. I already grabbed some necessary supplies for you – sheets, towels and such."

The girl just nodded.

Clint stared at her for a moment, as if expecting her to say something else, but she remained quiet, face blank of emotion. _A 'thank you'_ _would be nice_ … He thought moodily as he handed her a temporary SHIELD access card that would open the room for her.

One-seventeen accepted the carded wordlessly and held it up to the sensor. The door slid open and she stepped warily into the room, eyes flickering around as she studied her surroundings, shoulders slightly tense as if anticipating this to be a trap.

When nothing immediately jumped out at her, she took a few more steps forward until she was staring down at the bed, folded grey sheets sitting on top of it next to a pile of plain white towels.

"We'll be in the common room while you settle in." Natasha's voice floated over her shoulder, and with a muffled protest from Clint, dragged him away.

* * *

Back in the common room, Natasha let go of Clint and walked over to the kitchenette to begin making herself a cup of coffee. Clint sighed as he threw himself onto the couch, watching Natasha bustle around the kitchen with tired eyes.

"She's a weird one, isn't she?" He drawled with a heavy sigh.

"I don't think there is such thing as a 'normal' Black Widow." Natasha replied as she began to pour the coffee grounds into the machine.

"But you weren't _nearly_ as bad as her." Clint told her in a whiny voice. "She's just so…ugh. Sometimes she gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Natasha gave him a confused look.

"It's an American term for the chills or goosebumps." Clint explained, and the Russian nodded in understanding.

"Black Widows are supposed to hide their emotions." Natasha shrugged as she poured water into the coffee machine and pressed 'start'. She walked over to Clint and gracefully folded herself onto the couch next to him.

"She's not just hiding her emotions, Tash." Clint said, turning to face her, the foil to his partner with his limbs spread out lazily while she sat poised and elegant. "She is completely _devoid_ of emotions whatsoever. Have you looked into her eyes? They're just a void of black. Even when she scowls or laughs, her eyes remained the same. It's like each of her expressions is just another mask, and she's just pretending to have emotions."

Natasha sighed but nodded at his words. She had noticed as well. When One-seventeen interacted with people, her expressions were lacking any sincerity. "The emotional conditioning certainly worked much better on One-seventeen than it did on me."

"That's another thing," Clint said as he pulled out a granola bar from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. "Why is her name a fucking number? Are you Russians that unimaginative?"

"Seriously?" Natasha deadpanned at the sight of the snack bar.

Clint shrugged. "No offense Natasha; I just don't understand how you and your kind got names, but she didn't."

"I'm talking about the fact that you store snacks in your jacket."

"What?" Clint asked defensively. "I'm a growing boy!"

She snorted at that. "You wish."

"That better not be a jab at my height." Clint growled, sensitive to the fact that he was the shortest man on the Avengers team – save for Dr. Banner, but that guy didn't count with the Hulk on his side.

Natasha rolled her eyes. _Men._

"Here's a radical idea," Clint piped up with his usual sass as he took a bite from his snack. "Why don't we start with giving the girl an actual human name? Constantly calling her a number is… uncomfortable."

"Giving the agents numbers is a strategy to dehumanize us and prevent the agents from forming intimate or familial bonds." One-seventeen suddenly recited to them as she entered the common room. "It is a strategy that has proven effective in preventing unnecessary emotional ties and trauma."

Clint blinked in surprise at that, while Natasha's expression fell into a frown.

"My point." Barton turned back to the redhead, pointing at the girl's glassy eyes.

"So name her." Natasha sighed, acceding to her partner. "Then we need to come up with a believable back story."

One-seventeen actually rolled her eyes. "I'm not a dog."

"Then name yourself." Clint drawled.

"My current designation works just fine." She sniffed at them.

"News flash, kid." The archer pointed his granola bar at her, "Normal people aren't named with numbers."

The girl crossed her arms and cracked her neck with a sigh. "Fine, name me whatever you wish. Just keep it Russian."

"How about _Manya_?" Natasha suggested, interrupting the strange argument between the young Widow and her partner.

"Rebellious woman?" The girl snorted. " _Po'shyol 'na hui._ " ***** She accompanied the statement by holding her middle finger up at the redhead.

"Watch your tongue." Natasha chided the girl at the curse, but her eyes held amusement. "What about _Polina_?"

The younger Widow scowled, and Natasha noticed what Clint had been talking about as the girl's eyes remained flat and dull despite her change in expression. "No."

"Then pick a name." Clint snapped with a short tone.

Humming, the girl shrugged and told them, "In the barracks I was sometimes called _Varya_."

Natasha's frowned and then scowled darkly at that, shaking her head and muttering a curse.

Clint leaned in and asked her under his breath, "What does that mean?"

"They called her 'foreigner'." Natasha replied with a scathing tone. Obviously it was 'foreigner' with a bad connotation.

"Well I don't exactly look like your typical Russian, do I?" The girl said, gesturing at her tan skin, wavy hair, and almond eyes. "Too much Siberian, or one of those eastern tribes anyway."

"Well we can't call you that." Natasha shook her head. "It's insulting."

The younger Widow shrugged. "Never mattered to me."

"Then how about _Vera_?" Natasha suggested. "Sounds like _Varya_ , without the derogatory context."

The girl shrugged. "Sure, whatever."

"Vera it is then." Natasha smiled at the girl with what might have been a genuine smile. "Vera Petrovik."

"Petrovik?" Clint asked, doing a double-take.

"It's a common surname in Russia." Natasha explained. "It will make it harder for anyone to dispute her background."

The younger Widow nodded in approval.

"Speaking of her background," Clint said, "How are we going to explain her sudden employment with SHIELD? There are plenty of agents that will remember that she was our prisoner at one point."

"We keep the story short and simple." Natasha replied. "She was an asset who we captured and convinced to work for us. We can't deny the fact that she's Russian, but we'll leave out her involvement with the Red Room."

"So she's just a regular Russian spy?" Clint asked with a doubtful tone.

"No, that's still too close to home." Natasha shook her head and studied the girl – now named Vera – closely. "Maybe we can say she's a Russian mercenary? That way she has no obvious connections to the Russian government."

"Well there's only so many options when trying to explain why SHIELD suddenly has another Russian assassin." Clint drawled as he stood up just in time for the coffee machine to ding, pouring two mugs of caffeine and handing one to the redhead as he returned to the couch. "But we still have to come up with a reason of why she would be assigned to SHIELD's top team."

"Just say I have skills that qualify me for the team." The younger Widow shrugged.

Clint eyed her and smirked, "It doesn't work like that."

"I'll just say I'm taking her under my wing." Natasha said thoughtfully. "As my protégé."

"I think the other agents would just find that more suspicious." Clint laughed. "You're not known for charity, Tash."

The redhead smacked his arm.

"Are we finished here, then?" The girl asked.

The two agents nodded.

"Yeah, I'll contact Fury after this." Clint held up his coffee before taking sip.

Natasha gave the younger Widow a strangely optimistic look. "Welcome to SHIELD, Vera."

* * *

 ***** _Po'shyol 'na hui_ – fuck off, fuck you

 **SHE FINALLY HAS A REAL NAME!**

 **Stay tuned, cause next chapter we get to see the two Widows fight for the first time!**


	11. Chapter 10: Faded jade

**Hey look at that! I'm back!** **Thank God for summer break, otherwise I'd never have time to work on my stories. Sorry to keep you guys waiting for so long.**

 **Anyway, guess what? Our favorite spies are finally going on a team mission! Hopefully everything goes well, right? LOL yeah right.**

 **I don't own anything.**

 **Just sayin'**

* * *

 _Another head hangs lowly_

 _Child is slowly taken_

 _And the violence caused such silence_

 _They are fighting_

 _With their tanks, and their bombs_

 _And their bombs, and their guns_

 _In your head they are crying_

* * *

Their first few missions as a team were frustrating for the two older members. Fury had relegated them to reconnaissance missions, keeping the team out of direct combat in favor of giving them time to 'bond'. The thing was, Vera was not the most open girl in the world. Bonding, socializing, and human interaction appeared to be completely nonexistent in her vernacular. Clint's cheesy jokes and American slang often went over her head, and she kept slipping into Russian whenever Natasha spoke to her, making Clint rather frustrated that he only had a limited understanding of Russian. Needless to say, after the first five missions or so, both Clint and Natasha were getting antsy.

Apparently sensing this, Fury finally assigned them to a high profile mission that they would normally receive without any hesitation. This time, however, SHIELD's top spy duo were nervous.

"We need to see how you fight." Natasha explained to Vera as they escorted her into one of SHIELD's many training rooms. "I know that we saw you fight once before, but that was during a real fight, with a lot of smoke, and a lot of distractions."

"I've seen how she fights." Clint muttered, still sore about that night on the Vienna rooftop when Vera had almost killed him – twice.

The girl had the gall to smirk.

"Well I have not." Natasha said as she motioned for the younger Widow to follow her to the mat. " _Priyekhat. My srazhayemsya._ "*

The girl nodded and joined Natasha on the mat with a lot more confidence than most people did when facing the Russian redhead. Then again, Vera had the same training.

Clint leaned against the wall, wishing he had a bag of popcorn. Sure he had seen the girl fight, but watching a Widow fight, and watching a Widow fight _another_ Widow was on a completely different level. He noticed a shadow standing behind one of the mirrored windows – no doubt Fury was hiding there, waiting to watch the show as well.

" _Tell me about your training._ " Natasha asked the girl in Russian as they faced off on the mat, standing ten feet apart in deceptively relaxed stances.

 _"_ _A lot changed since your generation._ " Vera told her, pulling her hair back into a quick braid. _"The Red Room learns from its mistakes."_

Natasha's gaze flickered to the girl's chest, envisioning the pale scar that ran from her sternum and down past her navel. Vera had yet to tell her anything about that, but she had no doubt it had something to do with the Red Room's 'improved' training.

" _Same fighting style though?"_ Natasha asked.

Vera shrugged. " _In some ways."_

The redhead frowned at that. The Red Room had a very specific fighting style, a mixture of traditional martial arts and Russian _spetsnaz_ fighting techniques and military tactics. Most of their training methods were illegal in most countries, being too brutal or abusive, and many died during the training. That was why there were always fewer Widows at the end of their training than at the beginning.

The thought that the Red Room had improved such procedures was… disturbing.

" _Let's see what you can do, then._ " Natasha said, falling into a battle stance.

Vera's face remained calm, and she shifted only slightly so that she leaned her weight on her back leg, but otherwise she did not enter any sort of battle stance and kept her arms relaxed at her sides. Natasha furrowed her brows at that.

 _What is she playing at?_ The redhead asked herself.

Time seemed to slow down as they stared each other down, green eyes into black eyes, generation versus generation.

 _She's waiting._ Natasha thought, studying Vera's dull eyes. _And she will wait all day if need be. I must make the first move._

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Natasha launched herself at the girl, jumping forward into a roll and swiping her leg at Vera's ankles. Predictably the girl dodged by jumping up, and the redhead swung her leg up to follow her, pushing off the floor with her arms. Vera grabbed her leg and used the momentum to again push herself away from the redhead, avoiding her next attack.

" _Stop holding back!_ " Natasha ordered as she swung at the girl again.

Vera's eyes seemed glint at that, and suddenly the girl was moving. Natasha's eyes widened at the sudden increase in speed, and abruptly the redhead was on the defensive, blocking punch after punch, kick after kick.

They ended up on the floor, rolling over each other before breaking apart, leaping to their feet, and rushing back at the other. Natasha had to brace herself for every hit that she blocked, her arms aching at the force behind the girl's punches, their arms colliding with a resounding _smack!_ Vera was unusually strong for her size.

Suddenly the brunette seemed to fall back, dropping to the floor and landing on her hands, bending over backwards at an impossible angle. She lifted her legs and, hooking one leg behind Natasha's knees, forcing the redhead forward and into the Vera's other leg, which shot up to land a harsh kick on her collarbone. Natasha hissed as she felt something fracture. She tried to grab Vera's legs, but the girl was already kicking off of her and flipping over to land on her feet.

Ignoring the throbbing of her collarbone, Natasha followed her forward, and they again began to exchange lightning-fast punches and kicks, neither one giving an inch.

Vera allowed one of Natasha's punches past her defenses, latching onto the arm and flipping the redhead over her shoulder. Natasha twisted her body while in the air, landing on her feet and catching Vera with an uppercut to the chin.

Instead of stunning the girl, however, she let herself fall back with the momentum and again grabbed Natasha's arm, placing a foot on the redhead's thigh and swinging her other leg up and over Natasha's shoulder, climbing the woman's body with impossible speed as she hooked the leg around Natasha's neck and twisting Natasha's arm.

Realizing that Vera intended to break her arm, Natasha rolled forward, shaking off the brunette. They both rolled to their feet and stared at each other with narrowed eyes, chests heaving for air. Natasha rolled her shoulder, hiding a wince as it strained. Vera appeared unaffected by the bruise blossoming on her chin.

And then it was Vera's turn to make the first move as the younger Widow ran forward at Natasha. The redhead brought her arms up in defense, but instead of a punch or a kick, the girl grabbed her fists and dropped her body to the floor, pulling Natasha down with her bodyweight and kicking both feet into Natasha's stomach and kicking her over her head.

Natasha landed in another roll, the wind knocked out of her but still managing to roll to her feet. However Vera was already attacking again, and she was barely able to avoid the hammer kick that slammed down on her position. Natasha threw herself out of the way, but the girl was already using the force of the landing to propel herself into another kick, this time managing to land a side-kick on Natasha's thigh.

The redhead grunted at the impact but latched her arm around Vera's leg, yanking her forward in an attempt to unbalance her. But Vera adapted, using the redhead's hold on her leg to lever herself off the ground and spin up into a roundhouse kick to Natasha's head. The older Widow was force to let go of Vera in order to duck, and the brunette landed on all fours on the ground before standing up and falling back into a fighting stance.

 _Interesting fighting style._ Natasha thought as they once again lapsed into a tense pause, circling each other but neither one making a move. _Less of the spetsnaz style and more of a mix of the eastern martial arts – using another combat style more modified to the female physicality. Constant movement, less aggressive, more flexibility, and using the enemy's momentum against them. Strength is focused in the legs, arms are used to direct motion, but there is still something off… She seems to be overreaching. She's pulling her punches and kicks, focusing more on tripping me or knocking me down._

 _But… why?_

"You are still holding back." Natasha said to Vera with her lips pressed into a frown.

Vera's expression remained unapologetic. "So are you."

Natasha felt her brow rise. _Huh. Didn't think she'd notice._

 _"_ _I will be frank with you,"_ Vera spoke, falling back into Russian. _"I am purposefully avoiding your vital areas. A direct hit from me might kill you."_

Natasha narrowed her eyes at that. Was the girl being overconfident? No, Vera did not have enough of an ego for that. If she was saying it, she meant it. Did this have something to do with whatever the Red Room had done to her? Natasha frowned at that, a heavy weight settling in her stomach.

"Well, I've seen enough to know that you can hold your own." Natasha finally said, straightening from her fighting stance and bowing towards her opponent to signal the end of the match. "But we've wasted enough time. You should go pack for our trip, our flight is in three hours."

Vera returned her bow robotically, before spinning on her heel and marching away with silent footsteps, the only sound accompanying her exit being the whisper of the automatic doors sliding open and then shut. There was a minute where Natasha was alone on the mat, before movement to her left signaled Clint's approach.

"She was just as good as you said she would be." Natasha hummed, not bothering to glance at Clint as he came to stand beside her, slouched with his hands thrust into his pockets.

"Told you." He said off-handedly, but the expression on his face told her how impressed he was. "Even holding back, she was able to keep you on your toes. I don't know many who can do that."

"Namely you and Steve." She muttered, and Clint had to stifle his smirk at the near-imperceptible pout on her face.

He crossed his hands behind his head and teased, "Well, time to add another name to that list, eh?"

Clint only had a moment to flinch before she whacked him in the stomach.

"Ow!" He whined, not really in any pain. "I just had lunch, woman!"

* * *

 **Unnamed location, Syria - 19:53**

Bullets ripped through the air, screeching as they whizzed over their heads. Windows shattered, people were screaming as they scrambled out of the way, and the enemy was closing in on them. The job had, without a doubt, gone bad. They had been spent to take out an arms-dealer, and all of his closest associates, but they had somehow been discovered before they had managed to take down their target. Suddenly they had an entire merc squad out for their heads, and they were currently stuck in a small, run-down clay building in a war-torn city in the middle of Syria.

"Dammit, we're pinned down!" Clint snarled as he and his two teammates leapt into an abandoned building and ducked down beneath the window sills, periodically popping backup to shoot at their pursuers.

"With no backup either." Natasha muttered grimly.

Vera had been mostly silent throughout the whole mission, and seemed to be focused wholly on shooting back at their enemies. She was currently ducked below the same window as Natasha, broken glass crunching beneath her boots as she crouched low, a semi-automatic rifle in hand with its nozzle resting on the window sill.

Clint did a double-take when he saw it. "Wait, that's not SHIELD equipment."

"Picked it up off a body." Vera muttered as she leaned her head down to peer through the scope and breathed in deeply. Then, she began pulling the trigger.

 _One down._ She aimed again, breathed in, counted to three, and pulled it again. _Two down._

Clint watched the girl with raised brows. She would shoot every few seconds, her whole body locked in position, her eyes glinting with uncanny focus, as if she had zoned out the entire world and narrowed it down to herself and her target. Vera would pull the trigger twice per target, _one-two, one-two,_ the butt of the gun nestled in the crook of her shoulder and jerking back with each shot, but never wavering off her line of sight.

 _She's quite the sniper._ Clint thought, his mind flashing back to that night on the rooftops of Vienna, when a shot had rang out into the night and his witness had died with a hole in his head. He glanced over at Natasha, but she was also shooting back at their enemies with the same single-minded determination as the younger Widow. _They're much more alike than Natasha would like to admit._

He popped up and fired two arrows, each on hitting their mark before he ducked back down and another wave of bullets blasted the walls in front of him. A bullet clipping the edge of the window Vera was shooting from, cracking the clay and spraying debris into Vera's face. The young woman jerked back, hissing a curse as she rubbed the dust from her eyes.

"I got five." Natasha growled as she pressed her back to the wall, eyes watching as bullets continued to fly through their window.

"Two and two." Clint nodded, pulling back another pair of arrows.

They both glanced at Vera, whose face was unusually expressive as she gazed down at her gun, brows pinched, lips pressed together in displeasure. She had pulled out the magazine of her gun and was gazing down at the last three shots, obviously the source of her displeasure.

"Seven." She murmured finally, still frowning at her lack of bullets.

Clint huffed in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Aw come one, the rookie is beating us?" He tossed a crooked grin at Natasha, who rolled her eyes.

"It's not a contest." The redhead shook her head.

"I'm not a rookie." Vera said at the same time, glancing at him with a completely serious face. "I've been doing missions like this since I was a child."

Clint paused and glared half-heartedly at the girl. "You seriously need to find your sense of humor."

Vera tilted her head in that strange, detached manner that always annoyed him. "I have no need for such intangible things."

Clint groaned in exasperation as another wave of bullets flew over their heads. All three agents took a moment to pop back up and take out a few more of their attackers before they all ducked back down. Vera seemed to have run out of bullets, as she threw the rifle away from her and pulled out the pair of pistols she usually fought with.

"I counted three left." Natasha panted. "Take 'em out, and then we need to catch up to the target before he leaves the city."

"Right." Clint and Vera replied in unison, standing and shooting out of the windows once more while they slowly edged towards the door of the building. Natasha kicked it open and jumped through, keeping her gun up and checking for any lurkers.

"Clear!" She called over her shoulder, the other two following her as they ran through the alleyway.

The redhead glanced over her shoulder at Clint. "You got a tracer on him earlier, right?"

Clint nodded, tapping his watch to pull up a satellite image of the entire city. "He's headed east, towards the slums. Judging from the speed at which he's moving, I'm guessing he's in a vehicle."

"No doubt armored too." Natasha muttered.

"Cut through here!" Clint interrupted her, suddenly veering right into a narrowing corridor between the buildings, the afternoon sky blocked out by clotheslines. The women followed his lead, running single-file through the alley and leaping over several barrels and crates.

"We're in the east side of the city now." Clint yelled back to them between pants. "He's stopped for now."

They all came to a stop, lingering in the shadows of the alleyway as men in armored cars drove past them. Judging from their tattered uniforms, they were part of the rebel forces. An explosion shook the ground not far off, followed by shouting and shooting.

"Shit." Natasha muttered as she peered around the corner of the wall down the street. "Looks like another battle between the army and the rebels just blew up."

Clint muttered a curse. " _Of course_ we would got caught up in the civil war during a mission. Now we just need to avoid two armies and a band of mercs. No big deal, right?"

"Your sarcasm has been noted." Natasha told him with a deadpan expression.

The rustling of cloth behind them caught their attention and they turned to see Vera snatching a variety of apparel off of one of the clotheslines. It took her less than a minute to throw on a dress and wrap her head in a scarf and suddenly she was a different person. The tan of her skin coupled with the slant of her eyes made her look uncannily middle-eastern. Her body language shifted, her shoulders hunching, body slouching forward, eyes cast downwards.

"Wow." Clint raise his brows at her.

"You look like a local." Natasha blinked at the sudden transformation.

Vera ignored their remarks and locked eyes with Clint. "Can you tell me which building he's in?"

He glanced back down at his watch and pointed in a very general direction across the street. "One of those. I'm not quite sure which, though. But he's approximately seventy feet ahead of us, forty degrees from our position."

He could see Vera calculate that exact position as her eyes locked in the same direction he had pointed and never wavered.

"Stay here." She ordered as she pulled her scarf up to cover her face so that only her eyes peered out at them. "I'll signal you when I'm done."

"What –hey wait –" Clint protested, but she was already darting across the street. He went to grab her, but Natasha snatched his arm and held him back.

"Let her." The redhead told him, clenching her jaw as another explosion rocked the city. "She's got the right idea. There's no way two white people would _not_ be noticed around here, even if I was to hide behind a scarf."

Clint hated to admit how right she was, narrowing his eyes as a tank drove down the street past them. The two agents drew back further into the shadows.

"We need to find a better place to hide." Natasha murmured in his ear. "The battle is getting closer to our position."

As if to emphasize her words, one of the buildings across the street from them took a hit, the top half of it crumbling in the wake of a mortar shell. They both flinched at that.

"Let's hope Vera wasn't near there." Clint muttered as he turned to follow Natasha back down the alley and further away from the conflict.

The in-fighting seemed to escalate in the few minutes it took for them to find an abandoned building that was far enough from the conflict to be deemed safe, while still providing them with a good view of the area. They waited in tense silence as the explosions went off with increasing frequency, before the area where Vera had been headed towards seemed to implode in plume of smoke.

Natasha gasped, and the two of them nearly leaned out of the window with bated breath at the sight of dust clouds rising up in the air, so thick that they could not even see what was left of the buildings there. There was an increase in noise from both sides of the civil war, as men began shouting and the shooting increased in their panic. The two agents exchanged worried glances.

"You think she's dead?" He asked her in a grim voice.

Natasha snorted. "It takes more than that to kill a Widow." But he could easily read the worry in her eyes.

Three tense minutes later they heard static whispering in their ears as their comms came online.

 _"_ _One-seventeen to Hawkeye and Widow."_ They both nearly slouched in relief as Vera's voice came through their earpieces. _"Targets are down. Requesting current location."_

"We're in one of the taller buildings." Natasha answered her. "It's an abandoned clothing store. You'll see an old advertisement for jeans plastered above the door."

"We'll meet you on the first floor." Clint added, before they cut off their communication. Then he and Natasha were picking up their guns and descending the stairs, carefully keeping an eye out for any stray soldiers.

After reaching the first floor, they remained out of sight of the main entrance, keeping their guns trained on the doorway. A few minutes passed in silence before a shadow moved by one of the windows, and suddenly a woman hidden by her scarf stepped through the doorway, hunched and frail looking. Neither of them moved or made a sound, not revealing themselves until the figure identified herself.

Suddenly the woman straightened, casting off her scarf to reveal a familiar face. There were a couple more scratches on Vera's face than before, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. She shrugged out of her borrowed dress as Natasha and Clint stepped out of the shadows and came towards her.

"Target and company have been eliminated." She told them as their approached her.

Clint shook his head at her as he gave her a light punch on the shoulder. "Don't worry us like that, kid."

She looked at her shoulder and furrowed her brows, seemingly unfamiliar with the friendly gesture.

"You'll have to tell us the story later." Natasha told her. "Right now, we need to get out of here. This city is about to become a warzone."

"It already is." Vera said as she led them out of the building and the three of them slipped back into the alleyways. "The southern half of the city has been wiped out. The army is using mustard gas against the rebels. Don't wanna get caught in that."

Natasha and Clint faltered at that, pausing to glance at her back in horror. She looked over her shoulder at their silence and raised a brow at them.

"What?" She asked. "Didn't SHIELD already know this?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes, but…"

"Seeing it is different than hearing about it." Clint muttered, a dark look on his face.

Vera shrugged. "No use worrying about it. It's not our problem." With that she turned away and continued to lead them to the northern portion of the city.

Clint stared at her back as she continued walking, then glanced at Natasha. She seemed almost as unaffected as Vera, although he knew that she was just hiding her feelings on the matter. Natasha was far more empathetic than Vera on such matters.

 _"I've been doing missions like this since I was a child."_ He frowned as he remembered her words, remembered how she had slipped on her costume and ventured out into the war-torn city, dodging bombs and bullets with ease, stepping over bodies without a care. He had also been young when he had been pulled into the underworld – sixteen and in many ways still a child – but Widows were practically veterans by that age. From what Natasha had told him, Widows were lucky to reach the age of thirty.

 _Had Tasha once been this cold?_ He knew that Vera was, in many ways, worse than Natasha had ever been. But Natasha had been away from the Red Room for a long time before he had run into her. The Red Room might have been disbanded, but its teachings were still alive and well within the younger Widow.

Bullets sounded in one of the streets nearby, forcing the agents to veer away from that direction. They came upon an armored truck from the rebel forces, which had been left on the side of the road after its drivers had been shot to death. The agents pulled the bodies out of the seats and dumped them on the street with grim faces (save for Vera's lack of expression) and collected the leftover guns. All three of them pulled the rebel jackets over their SHIELD uniforms, the women covering their heads with helmets so as to blend in with the rebel fighters. Then the three of them continued north, driving with enough purpose through the streets that the rebels assumed that they had official business. They exited the city and continued on to the next town over, leaving the city in flames and ruin, the sound of mortar and the dying ringing in their ears.

A SHIELD helicopter was waiting for them out in the desert, just beyond the hills overlooking the smaller town. They boarded the copter in grim silence, flying over the city on their way back to see that that it was mostly a pile of rubble, a tell-tale yellow haze hanging over the city like the shroud of death.

A few of their fellow SHIELD agents swore at the sight of it, shaking their heads in shock. Clint and Natasha glanced at Vera, but the girl was looking the opposite direction, staring at the desert as the sun sunk beneath the sands. Her expression was unreadable, as usual, her body relaxing against the seat of the copter as she leaned her arm on the windowsill and cupped her chin in an uncaring manner.

"They're actually using mustard gas!" One soldier hissed in revulsion.

"Dear God…" One of their soldiers muttered as he looked down at the dying city below them. The winds changed, and somehow managed to carry the faint scent of mustard and rotted flesh upwards through the open doors of the helicopter.

One soldier gagged at the smell. "That is awful…" He whispered, staring out of the door, his fist clenching the side of the copter. He was young, probably with only a few missions under his belt.

Vera glanced at the soldier with a bored expression, though it could easily be mistaken for disdain. "That is war."

"There are rules against mustard-gas!" The soldier protested. "The Geneva Contract states -"

"Oh please." The young Widow scoffed. "There's only one rule of war: there are no rules."

The soldier stared at her in disbelief.

"Some countries are just more discrete in how they play the game." Vera finally glanced down at the burning city, which was growing smaller in the distance with each passing minute. "Others lack such subtly. But they all have blood on their hands, one way or another. What do you think SHIELD is for?"

The young man stared at her in shock, and then shaking his head as he turned to look back towards the city, which was now just a plume of smoke on the horizon. Natasha leaned over and pinched Vera on the arm. The younger Widow hardly flinched, and turned to look at her elder with a questioning gaze.

"That was mean." Natasha scolded her.

Vera shrugged. "The idealistic ones always irritate me."

Clint chuckled at that. "Finally, something that gets a rise out of you!"

Vera glanced back to the soldier in question, which had left the doorway to speak to the pilots. "Not exactly a good thing." She replied to that. "I killed a guy like him once just because I found him annoying."

Her teammates stared at her in shock, both caught somewhere between horror and amusement.

Vera lifted a brow at them. "What? It was a mercenary group; they didn't care. They found the boy annoying too."

Natasha was the first to recover, clearing her throat and shaking her head in exasperation. "Well, for future reference, you can't just kill the people that annoy you."

"How unfortunate." Vera replied, actually sounding disappointed.

* * *

 **LEAVE A REVIEW MY LOVELY READERS! ^_^**


	12. Chapter 11: Proposed Purpose

**Gasp! An update? A real update?**

 **Yes, yes it is. I apologize for my lack of activity, I've been traveling abroad again, and since I've been in another country for the past few months I've been very preoccupied. Anyway, things are slowing down again, so thankfully I had some time to write!**

 **I don't own Marvel, I just play with the characters**

* * *

 _You can't wake up, this is not a dream,  
_

 _You're part of a machine, you are not a human being,_

 _I think there's a flaw in my code,_

 _These voices won't leave me alone_

* * *

They returned to base in relative silence, the roar of the blades of the helicopter drowning out most of their words anyway. Docking at the SHIELD base, the team quickly reported to Fury about their mission. The director seemed surprise at how Vera handled the mission, but made no comment otherwise, dismissing them to their quarters once all was settled. The only time Vera spoke up was when addressing the deaths of their targets, who were apparently worth quite a bit of money on the black market. The girl was _not_ happy that she could not collect their bounties, and expressed her dissatisfaction with an ice-cold glare.

The young woman stormed back towards their living quarters, her narrowed gaze the only sign of her aggravation. Natasha and Clint followed behind, the redhead shaking her head while the archer seemed more amused than anything.

 _She's a greedy little thing._ Clint thought in amusement as Vera shut the door to her room without so much as glancing in their direction. So much for bonding during the mission.

On his left, Natasha crossed her arms as she frowned at Vera's door. "She seriously needs to work on her teamwork."

Clint snorted at that, earning himself a dark look from his partner. "Like you were any better when we found you!"

"I wasn't." Natasha admitted. "But she puts the team at risk if she continues to operate like a solo agent."

"It's a bad habit." Clint agreed, thinking of his own solo career before he had been caught by SHIELD. "And hard to break. We need to give her time, Nat. It's only the first mission after all. She needs to get used to us."

Natasha sighed as Clint patted her shoulder. "I know, but that still poses a danger to our missions until we find some kind of coherency."

He chuckled as he pulled away and began walking to his own room. "I'm not too worried about it. If anyone can get through to her, you can." Clint winked at her as his door slid open and closed behind him.

Natasha shook her head before turning to enter her own room down the hall. _You give me too much credit, Clint. This one is nothing like me at all._

She sat on her bed for a long while, hunched over with her elbows resting on her knees. Holding her hands with their palms up, she stared at the dirt encrusted on her calluses, beneath her fingernails, the smell of fire and the faint bitterness of ash hanging like a dark cloud above her.

 _I don't like fire…_ She thought absently as she remembered the fateful night that ended her official time as a Widow. With a sigh, she stood up and stretched her arms, feeling a small relief when a couple bones popped and she rolled her shoulders.

 _Why am I here?_ She wondered as she methodically began to peel off her bodysuit, allowing it to hit the floor as she walked to the sterile bathroom attached to her room. Standing under the shower, she switched on the nozzle and let the cold water hit her back, waiting patiently for the warm water to kick in. She felt confined within the walls of SHIELD. A prisoner in all but name. She yearned for the days without their constant oversight, when she could go wherever and kill whomever.

Fingers twitching at the thought, she snapped off the water and hurriedly toweled off. Returning to her room, she stared at the spare clothes that the other Widow had lent her, having been tossed onto her bed without a care just before they left for their mission.

A knock on her door interrupted her daze.

"Vera?" The redhead in question called through the door.

 _Vera?_ She tilted her head in brief confusion. _Oh right, that's me._

She walked towards the door and tapped a button on the keypad beside it. The door slid open with a whisper and she found herself staring at a much different version of Natasha, dressed in civilian clothing for the first time since Vera had known her.

"We're gonna go grab something to eat." The redhead said, jerking her thumb behind her in a motion to include the archer that leaned against the wall behind her. "Thought I'd at least offer for you to join us."

"I am fine." Vera said in her usual monotone, allowing the door to shut before the other woman could protest.

"V-Vera!" Natasha's muffled voice exclaimed in outrage on the other side of the door.

She walked back to her bed without a second glance, hearing Clint coax his partner into leaving the door and heading down to the mess hall. _As if I'd want to go there during dinner hours._

She sat on the floor and began to stretch out her muscles, still sore from the mission. Half an hour later and she was almost done with her stretching exercises when she heard the familiar cadence of Natasha and Clint's footfalls entering the hallway outside her door. The footsteps paused outside her door for a moment, before walking away, leaving her in peace.

Ten more minutes and she was finishing up her stretches, but Vera still could not shake the restless feeling in her bones. Despite the fact that she had only just returned from a mission, and had even taken a shower, Vera quickly threw on some workout clothes and headed down to where she had heard the training rooms were located.

After taking a few wrong turns, the Widow found what she was looking for, and was relieved to see that the rooms were empty at this hour. She began with tumbling, a simple yet crucial part of her fighting style, practicing handstands, cartwheels, and various flips, from various angles. Then she moved on to the punching bag, although when the first one flew off its hook (and nearly taking a chunk of the ceiling with it) she was quickly forced to temper the strength of her blows, which only served to further irritate her. Two downed punching bags later, Vera had turned to sparring with invisible enemies when she heard the doors to the training room open.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" A gravelly male voice interrupted her concentration.

Vera pointedly ignored him as she continued with her sequences.

"Oi –"

Whoever this man was, he had to be rather stupid. Vera felt a hand land on her shoulder, and in less than a second she had flipped the man over and slammed him into the ground, her hand immediately pinning him down by the throat.

"Ack!" He gurgled beneath her, squirming for a moment before his fighting instincts seemed to kick in and he made a swing at her.

Vera easily ducked out of the way and leapt backwards, creating distance between them. The soldier – for he was clearly dressed in a SHIELD uniform – jumped up from the ground and seemed to take her retreat as an invitation. He lunged at her, but Vera was already darting out of the way, spinning just out of his reach but remaining close enough to attempt another hit. She waited until he lost his initial steam before she dove back in, slamming her foot into the back of his knee, making him loose his balance, and then aiming a punch at his neck.

However, the man caught her wrist and used her momentum to yank her forward, sending a punch towards her face. Vera twisted in his grip, somehow sliding underneath his punch and pulling her feet under her as she launched upwards and slammed her shoulder into his chest, pushing him down onto the mat. They grappled for a moment, each one fighting for the top, until he managed to pin her to the mat.

But Vera had intentionally allowed him into her defenses, using their proximity to slam her forehead into his, dazing the man just long enough for her to throw him off. She rolled to her feet and sent a roundhouse kick towards his temple. The soldier managed to stumble back and out of her range, shaking his head to clear his ears of the ringing.

"Feisty, eh?" He chuckled as he fell into a fighting stance, and they leapt towards one another again.

This continued for a good ten minutes before she noticed that he was tiring, thought he man hid it well. She went on the defensive, idly dodging and deflecting his blows, biding time until he faltered – and then she went in for the kill.

His punch came at her a little slower than usual, and it was all she needed to reach forward, circling her arm around his as she struck his neck like a snake. The pressure point she hit caused his arm to instantly go numb, distracting the man long enough so that she could spin around to his back, wrapping on arm around his shoulder and kneeing him in the side.

She heard the breath leave his lungs in a surprised wheeze, before she pushed him away and backed up, waiting to see if he would continue the fight.

"Okay, okay…" The man panted as he turned to face her, face screwed in pain as he rubbed his aching ribs. "You win, girly."

 _Slight accent._ She noted idly. _New York._

He paused to look her up and down, evaluating her in light of their sparring, before a crooked grin stretched across his face. "The name's Brock Rumlow. Mah boys just call me Rumlow, or 'Rumy' if they're feelin' too comfortable."

He held out his hand to shake.

Vera glanced over the man as well, tall and muscular like most soldiers, tanned due to his days in the field with a few small scars visible on his face and hands, a nick on the chin, a slice through one of his eyebrows, his nose slightly skewed in a way that told her it had been broken more than a few times. He had a darker aura to him, more akin to the mercenaries she would work with in the underground rather than the shining toy soldiers that littered the halls of SHIELD. He fought dirty, like a true fighter, someone that learned on the street rather than the military academies.

Huh. She could respect that. Vera reached out her hand and grasped his, shaking it. His eyes lit up a moment before it happened.

He yanked her forward and attempted to flip her over his back. Yet the split second his expression changed Vera had prepared herself, and slipping her hand out of his grip, she pushed herself off of his chest and backflipped away from him, landing lightly without the slightest sign of panic.

She met his eyes with her own bored gaze. "Was that supposed to prove something, Yankee?"

"Ha!" The man called Rumlow laughed boisterously. "You're really somethin'. Not even fazed, huh?"

"Your expression gave you away the second before you acted." She told him as she turned away to walk over to the water fountain, wiping the stray drops away with the hem of her tank top. "You also tensed up before you acted. I saw it in your muscles first."

She turned back at him, finding the man studying her with a strange gleam in his eye.

"Who are you?" He asked, crossing his arms as a smirk settled naturally upon his features.

"They call me Vera." She answered simply. "I'm new."

A surprised look crossed Rumlow's face. "I haven't heard about any new recruits."

"I was drafted." She deadpanned as she turned to head for the door, deciding that the conversation was becoming unnecessary.

"Whoa, hold up." The soldier trotted up to her side, walking beside her as she exited the training room. "What do you mean drafted?"

Vera gave him a measuring glance, knowing that the truth of her involvement with SHIELD was classified. "Let's just say Fury gave me a deal I couldn't refuse."

"Heh, you mean like Hawkeye?" He asked her.

She raised a brow at that. "Agent Barton?"

"Yeah," Rumlow nodded. "He was a real trouble kid. Became a mercenary as a teenager, began taking assassinations around sixteen, and would have gone off the deep end if he hadn't been caught by SHIELD. They agreed not to lock him up and throw away the key if he sold his soul to SHIELD."

Vera was surprised. Clint? Hawkeye? As in the easy-going archer that always got in trouble for snacking at inappropriate times?

"Huh." Was her only reply.

"So you another one of his strays, then?" Rumlow asked. "Like the Black Widow?"

She assumed he was referring to Clint's recruitment of Natasha, considering her title as Black Widow was still a secret. Still, the conversation was veering into dangerous territory; it was time to end it.

"Must you talk so much?" She asked him, pointedly walking away from him, not quite sure where the hallway led as long as it was away from him.

He stopped to watch her leave, making no move to follow her. "Okay girly, I get what you're sayin'. I'll back off for now. See ya 'round."

 _I hope not._ Vera thought with an exasperated huff, walking the halls until she eventually found the mess hall. It was rather late for dinner, and thankfully most of the room was empty. She picked up a couple plates of food, balancing four plates on her arms as she sat down on a table as far away from the other inhabitants of the room as possible, a shadowy corner that fit her tastes just fine.

The food was nothing fancy or delicious. She merely chose the healthiest options, full of protein and carbs. Vera needed to eat a lot due to her heightened metabolism and her recent sparring match.

She was interrupted from her meditative thoughts by a pair of footfalls approaching her. Her eyes slid to her left, though Vera did not acknowledge the person standing just off to her side, merely waited for them to speak.

"You are the Black Widow?" A man's voice asked softly, clearly having no intention of anyone overhearing their conversation.

That caught her attention. Vera turned her head far enough to look the man in the eyes, except her gaze was interrupted by a pair of black sunglasses. He was a classic, nameless messenger, an exceptionally average looking man in a suit.

"That depends on who's asking." Was her reply.

He handed her a folded piece of paper. "This is for you."

Vera took the paper carefully, sniffing it once in case of poison, and then flipping it open and scanning the words quickly.

"Who do you work for?" She asked the man as her eyes picked out the key words on the page.

"I work for SHIELD, technically." He replied, causing her to arch an eyebrow. "I just work for someone higher up than Fury."

"One of the illusive Council members, I presume?" She asked, folding the strange note and tucking it into the waistband of her leggings.

The man coughed into his hand. "I am not at liberty to say."

"I see." She nodded, turning back to her food. "You are dismissed."

She could tell the dismissal miffed the man, as he huffed under his breath, thinking she could not hear, before walking away with a rigid walk and stomping feet. Vera pulled out the paper again and read it over again, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

 _Hello 117,_

 _I welcome you to SHIELD. I sincerely hope you are settling in with ease. I have an offer that I think you would appreciate. Fury may act tough, however I think we both know that he will never use you to your full potential. I intend to change that. You are a great spy and a great weapon. I presume that being limited in combat by illusions of mercy hinders your growth._

 _This is why I extend my own hand of friendship. I have my own group of elite SHIELD operatives that are willing to do what is necessary, the dirty work that many among SHIELD are hesitant to act upon. They are another branch of SHIELD operations, but work directly for the Council. Should you accept this offer, you will not be removed from your current position under Fury, however you will receive jobs that are outside of his command and you will be allowed to 'go all out' as the saying goes. Think of it as a side job, hm?_

 _I look forward to your response._

The note ended there. She assumed that whichever Council member set this up, they would have a way to find her for her answer. Until then, all she could do was think over it. Standing up, Vera left her dirty dishes for the staff to clean up as she headed back to her rooms in a brisk walk, hoping not to run into any more shady characters.

Arriving to her room, Vera sat on her bed and leaned her elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor. Thoughts whirled within her mind, wondering just how deep SHIELD went. It was beginning to remind her a little too much of games the Soviets used to play. Her eyes darted to the note on her end table.

She reached for it, glancing down to memorize the handwriting for a moment before she stood up and walked into her restroom. As she had thought, the note disintegrated as she ran it under the water of her sink, leaving no evidence of her contact.

Glancing back up into her mirror, Vera studied her face, the dark eyes that seemed void of light, the sharp angles of her face, and the pale scar that nicked the left side of her jawbone. She looked hungry, anxious, restless. She wanted to fight, she wanted to kill. Killing reminded her of what she was, what she was meant for. It stopped her from dreaming of more, of reaching for what she could not have. She killed to kill her own humanity.

 _I'll take your offer._ She thought to the person that had written that note, clenching a fist until her fingernails drew blood on her palm. She raised her hand and began to lick up the red welling up. _As long has it keeps me numb._

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 **Please leave a review!**


	13. Chapter 12: Usual Business

**WHUT WHUT I'M ALIVE BITCHES**

 **Soooo here's to another chappie! And not a filler this time :) Lots of action in this one. Enjoy~**

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 _There's a dark cloud overhead_

 _Just remember what I said_

 _Yeah, someone's gonna get hurt_

 _(Is it gonna be me?)_

* * *

 **Friday – 7:00**

The week after her first mission with agents Natasha and Clint was relatively quiet. Vera pushed the thought of the strange note to the back of her head, knowing that her mystery boss would contact her when they needed her. Espionage worked the same no matter what side of the law you were on. As it happens, she had been heading to her morning workout session when she was finally called to action by her newest client.

"Agent One-seventeen?" A voice called to her from a narrow shadowy hallway branching off from the one she had been traversing.

She pulled to a stop and turned to face the speaker, a man not unlike the other one, wearing a standard suit, sunglasses, and a GI haircut. "Yes?"

"Follow me." He says before immediately turning around.

"Why should I?" She prompts as she crosses her arms, testing him.

"I'm with the Council." The agent replies. "That's all you need to know."

She nods. "Fair enough."

He leads her to the lower floors of the SHIELD complex, aware that she had descended underground when windows cease to be featured among the walls. The Council would have been too vulnerable to attack in the upper floors, should the buildings be attacked, they would be sitting ducks. Vera guesses that she is two levels underground when the man finally opens a door and leads her into plain room with four blank walls, a table with chairs the only inhabitants.

"Wait here." He commands as he steps out of the room and closes the door behind her.

Vera rolls her shoulders to get rid of the sudden tension building in her neck, glancing around the room to see if there were any cameras. There were none that she could see. She fidgeted her fingers, running along the pockets and other hidden places where she kept weapons, despite not being in full uniform. She did not like closed spaces. Hearing the gears in the door handle turning, she leaned against the nearest wall and crossed her arms and legs at the ankle, taking on a relaxed countenance.

The door opened and in entered a woman dressed in a black pants suit, a thin gold chain hanging from her necks, a small jewel dangling from it, with matching studs in her ears. She was in her late fifties, if Vera had to guess, with wrinkling olive skin and faded green eyes. Her hair was cut to just above her shoulders, brunette with highlights, no doubt dyed to hide the grey hair at her roots.

A council _woman_.

"Good day, One-seventeen." The woman immediately spoke. "Call me Charlie."

 _Codename._ Vera noted before nodding at the woman and pushing off the wall to approach her, walking in a slow, predatory manner until the two women were staring at each other across the table. The older woman straightened at the chilled atmosphere in the room, setting her face in a stern expression. Vera merely kept her arms crossed and braced her legs apart, cocking her head to stare at the woman with distant curiosity.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've asked you here." 'Charlie' says.

Vera's lips quirk in a humorless smirk. "I'm only interested in whether you intend to pay me, councilwoman."

"Why of course." The older woman gave her a tight-lipped smile. "These missions will be considered working overtime, with a considerable bonus to your usual SHIELD pay. And, of course, to guarantee you silence."

Vera's lips pulled into a full smirk. "Well that goes without saying, hm? Now then, I assume you called me here for more than just an introduction."

The woman nodded and pulled out a file that had been hidden beneath her coat and pinched between her arm and her torso. She handed the file to Vera, who receive the file and opened it, flipping through the pages, revealing a geographic and topographic map, a few blurry satellite pictures of a house surrounded by foliage in some distant countryside, and the picture of a man as he takes off his sunglasses, surrounded by his guards. No name, no affiliation, only the coordinates of her target. No questions asked.

"An assassination?" She asks with a glint in her eye. "You spoil me."

"Indeed. However, I am sending you in with a team, your _other_ new team." Charlie responded.

Vera frowned at that. "Ugh, _another_ team? I prefer to work alone, madam."

"It will be your job to infiltrate and take out the target." The other woman tells her. "The team is there to get you in, and more importantly, get you out, preferably in one piece."

Vera would have liked to tell the woman that military units only end up making noise and attracting attention, whereas the Black Widow could get in and out without anyone being the wiser. However, she was aware that the councilwoman would not budge on the subject.

"Fine." Vera sighed. "When does the mission commence?"

"This afternoon. Be at the SHIELD landing strip at 18:00 and be battle-ready. And don't expect to be back for the rest of the weekend." Charlie replied, turning around to open the door, glancing back at Vera. "Oh, and don't tell Fury about this. You'll be excused."

With that Charlie walked out of the door, leaving the door open behind her. Vera followed her out, the still in her hand. For a moment, she stood in the corridor and watched the councilwoman disappear around the corner, before turning and making her way to the stairwell, using her memory to navigate in the opposite direction than she had entered.

 **Friday – 17:30**

 _Oh. It's him._ Vera internally sighed as she arrived at the landing strip and saw her newest team gathered around the meeting point. A small group of SHIELD operatives all decked in their tactical gear, sitting on crates of supplies, a few sharing a smoke while others busied themselves with their weapons. And standing in the center was Brock Rumlow, radiating arrogance as he gave a boisterous laugh at something one of his men said.

He must have caught sight of her figure approaching them, as he quickly straightened from a slouch and settled his gaze upon her.

"Well, well, look who it is." Rumlow chuckled, his eyes traveling up and down her skin-tight cat suit, not even bothering to hide his interests.

She ignored him. It was not the first time men had leered at her battle attire, and anyway, most of them learned their lesson if their fingers started to wander, if with fewer fingers than when they had started. Then again, the design of the suit was also meant to distract the less-focused enemies.

Similar to what Agent Romanov often wore, the cat suit was made of a thick material that imitated Kevlar, but far more flexible and not quite as bullet-proof. Still, the fabric did not tear easily, even if a knife was taken to it, and her forearms, shins, and torso were reinforced with small ceramic plates that interlocked and created a modern-day chainmail, while her elbows and knees were tipped with bigger ceramic plates that capped the joints and made them harder to smash and harder to hit. Around her hips sat a utility belt, filled with trinkets from grenades to poison to a full lock picking kit. She was also given a brand-new pair of combat boots, tipped with sharpened steel toes, with a small opening in the heels that she was able to hide a small blade in.

 _I must thank Charlie when I return._ Vera thought in satisfaction as she continued to approach the Council's hit squad, inwardly marveling at the way the suit seemed to cling to her every move like a second skin. _I don't think I've ever had armor this nice before._

"Lookin' good, girly." Rumlow greeted her as Vera came to a stop before the team, every soldier eyeing her with either a leer, suspicion, or both.

"I was told you would be assigning me my weapons." She spoke, ignoring his earlier words.

"Yeah, yeah." Rumlow sighed as he shooed one of his men off of the crate they had been sitting on and opened the box to reveal a stash of guns, all shiny and new on their racks. "Business first, huh?"

"I'm only here for business, Mr. Rumlow." Vera stated curtly as he handed her a standard M16 and a hand-full of magazines.

"Call me captain."

She took the rifle and carefully inspected it, first checking the safety, then the cartridge, then the barrel, as well as various other parts that were liable to jam or malfunction. Finally, she swung the attached strap over her shoulder and placed the extra magazines into her utility belt.

"Special delivery." Rumlow caught her attention again as he handed her a pistol. "You won't be able to use the rifle where you're going. You'll only use it before and after infiltration."

 _Duh._ Vera thought. There was no way she could sneak into enemy territory with a carbine strapped to her back. She glanced at the gun in Rumlow's hand and carefully took it in hand.

 _A Beretta?_ She checks the pistol as thoroughly as she did the rifle before accepting the ammo. _M9A1. Always a good choice._

Holstering the pistol at her side, Vera glances over her newest team. Based on the way they moved and held themselves, she would guess that most of them were marines, with a few army men thrown into the mix. They sized her up without much discretion, probably wondering why she was there.

"Boys," Rumlow spoke up as he called his team to attention. "This here is Agent Vera. She'll be working with us from now on."

"Oi, we don't need some little missy gettin' in the way." One of the men protested, a burly man with a short mohawk shaved onto his head with a scar on his eyebrow that slashed down his temple.

"Cool it, Mike." Rumlow told him. "She's more than capable of kicking your ass, I assure you. Charlie personally assigned her to this team. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with her."

Mike grumbled under his breath, having no desire to speak with the councilwoman, and grudgingly backed now. Not far off on the landing strip a jet began to rev to life, the rotors spinning steadily and gaining speed while the back hatch lowered.

"Alright everyone, time to move." Rumlow yelled over the growing noise of the jet as nine soldiers and one Black Widow began to march onto the plane, Vera taking up the rear.

 **Saturday – Unknown base, 21:45**

The flight took fourteen hours by her estimation, with the soldiers joking among each other for the first two hours before they fell into silence. Eventually some began to doze off, only to be woken by the rough turbulence that accompanied the jet's landing at an unnamed base in the middle of the night. Walking down the exit ramp, Vera was greeted by a hot and dry wind that scraped her cheeks with sand. The base was small, lit up by fluorescent lights, but the stars above them shone even brighter. City lights flickered in the distance, a few miles away if she had to guess.

Vera did not know where in the world they were, what continent they were on, or what country they were in. She knew better than to ask.

Rather than entering the base, the team walked away from the jet and immediately began to pile into several Apache helicopters. Vera followed their lead, Rumlow catching her arm and dragging her into the same copter as himself, settling her in the seat beside him. She wondered whether it was because she was the newbie on the team, or if he it was because he did not trust her yet. Perhaps Charlie had asked him to keep an eye on her, judging her loyalties.

Regardless, Vera remained quiet as she buckled her seatbelt and accepted a pair of headphones from one of the pilots. Rumlow pushed a pair of night-vision goggles into her hands, which she quickly donned and activated. They flew across the land under the cover of night, her eyes scouring what little she could see of the arid, golden brown landscape, patches of vegetation scattered throughout.

"20 miles to the target." The voice of the pilot echoes across their comms.

The Apaches began to descend, hovering a couple feet above the ground. The ops team slithered down the ropes with practiced ease, feet touching down on the hardened sand and immediately scuttling for cover, Vera following in Rumlow's shadow.

They quickly covered the distance between them and the small desert town in their sights. The streets were dark and quiet, with only a few electric lights illuminating the major streets. They stuck to the alleyways, using only whispers and hand-signals to communicate. There were ten members of the team, with the majority being large, burly soldiers, but their size did not seem to hinder them in the least as they melted seamlessly into the shadows.

"Target building found." One of the nameless members of the team whispered into the comms, staring around the corner of an alley at a rather boring looking building, identical to every other shack on the street. The rest of the team found spots to observe the building, dark shadows hiding in the backstreets and on the rooftops.

"One entrance." Rumlow's voice whispered into her ear via the link.

He and Vera were perched on top of the roof of one of the houses, the only sound between them being the whisper of their uniforms and the scrape of a boot on concrete.

 _One entrance?_ Vera frowned. That didn't make sense. They were here to bust a secret, and highly illegal research operation, supposedly being privately funded by some rich weapons contractor. Despite the humble front they put up in this town, intel said that there was some kind of underground facility connected to this house, where they were working on WMD's.

Everyone on the team was thinking the same thing: there's no way this was the only entrance. Places like this, the people they were dealing with; they always had another way out.

"Let me take a look." Vera muttered into her mic, watching as Rumlow turned to look at her from behind his night-vision goggles.

There were some mutters from the rest of the members, but no one dared say anything before their captain made his mind.

After a long pause, Rumlow slowly nodded his head. "Do it."

She was gone before the words finished, leaping off the rooftops, silent in her movements, disappearing as she dropped into one of the alleyways and then found a way to squeeze into the sewers, heading in the direction of the house in question. There was not an exit anywhere near the target house, not that she expected any. But as she had suspected, there was a door in the sewers that was not on the town blueprints, and it was rather close to the position of the target area.

"Found something." She said into her comms, hoping the connection would still be strong. The sewers were not as far underground as they were in bigger cities.

"What?" Rumlow's voice cut through the static.

"A door. It wasn't on the blueprints." She said as she knelt to study the lock. "I bet it's connected to the facility we're looking for."

"Scope it and report back." Rumlow ordered, then addressed the rest of the team. "Stay still, men. Charging in through the front door will only get someone killed."

Vera guessed that someone had been complaining about the wait while she had been trudging through the sludge. The mystery door was locked, unsurprisingly, but she quickly pulled out a few tools and picked the lock, kicking the door open with her rifle at the ready. The hallway she found herself in was dark, but she was reluctant to turn on the flashlight on her rifle, not willing to gamble on whether the hallway was being watched or not.

Slinging her rifle back over her shoulders, she felt her way through the dark, the static of her comm going flat within minutes, telling her that connection had been cut. She pulled out one of her personal gadgets that she had kept from her time with the Red Room. It was a low-level flashlight the size of a pen that emitted an infra-red beam that was barely visible to the human eye, even in the dark. But when one had night-vision goggles, it provided enough light for the image enhancers to pick up.

With one hand holding up the infrared light, and the other pulling out her Beretta, she carefully made her way into the depths of the tunnel, eventually finding a rather large and sturdy steel door that was most definitely beyond anything that the townspeople could afford. There was no sign of a door knob, bar, or any sort of lever to open the door. Vera ran her fingers along the edges, hoping to find a catch or something to indicate hinges or a bolt.

Nothing.

She felt her lips tug into a frown. The door must only open from the other side. She sighed and pushed her ear against the smooth surface of the steel, closing her eyes to focus. She wasn't expecting to hear much on the other side of the door, but the still silence assured her that no one would be waiting for her on the other side. Or at least, she hoped so.

 _Time to show some effort._ She thought to herself as she holstered her pistol and trapped her flashlight between her teeth, keeping the light focused on the door as she freed both hands. Vera rolled her shoulders and wrists, cracked her knuckles, and then swung.

 _BAM!_

Her first punch slammed into the steel sheet with enough force to make the door shudder in its frame. She shot her other fist forward, hitting the same spot in the middle of the door. This time, the metal whined under her weight, as the concrete edges around the door began to crack.

 _BAM! BAM! BAM!_

She swung again and again, putting her weight behind each punch, the steel slowly but surely giving beneath her immense strength, creaking and groaning. Between the steel and the concrete, the doorframe broke. She made a small hop back as dust rained down and the frame shuddered before the cracks gave in. The steel door, now looking more like a dented square of aluminum, fell backwards, slipping through the frame and crashing to the floor on the other side.

 _There's no way that did not go unnoticed._ Vera thought as she gingerly stepped through the doorway, swinging her rifle under her arm and fitting it into the crook of her arms, sights on alert.

" _Ma aldhy yajri –_ "

The guard that had come to investigate found himself greeted by a single shot, his eyes widening in disbelief as he glanced down at the bullet hole in his chest, the red bloom on his chest the only sight he seemed to register as his hands fumbled for his gun. A second later he fell, greeting the ground face-first. Vera leapt forward, slinging her rifle back behind her as she hauled his body back into the tunnel she had come from.

After a quick look up and down each end of the corridor, wherein she took out one more guard and carried his body back into the tunnel to hide it, dumping it into a pile with the previous guard, she made a quick retreat back to the sewers.

The moment her comms link reconnected with the team, the static preluding, she alerted Rumlow.

"I got an 'in'." She said in a low voice, hearing a distant curse from one of the men over their connection, having probably startled the team after being disconnected for so long.

"The sewer entrance?" Rumlow asked just to be sure.

"Yeah." She answered. "Make it quick. I don't know when someone will check to see if the guards are still at their posts."

After a quick sound of affirmation, she heard the sounds of movement, the creak of leather, the clink of metal, the slight jingle of clips and chains. Vera waited by the doorway to the sewers, eyes peering into the darkness and waiting for the tell-tale flash of their scopes. They emerge from the shadows with only the sound of the water beneath their boots to herald their arrival, dim flashlights pointed to the floor, goggles reflected her face.

"Sir." She nodded in greeting, wordlessly gesturing for them to follow him into the tunnel behind her.

"Agent." Was his greeting as he stepped in behind her.

"I believe this tunnel was meant to be a last-resort escape route. It seemed abandoned, but it certainly connects to the facility we are looking for." She explained to him as they rushed towards where the steel door once stood.

Rumlow and the team paused at the empty doorway, glancing over the two dead men, and then eyeing the hole where the steel door once stood, the concrete cracked and crumbling. Their captain looked at Vera and pointed at the dented steel.

"What happened here?"

"I opened the door." Vera shrugged, stepping over the rubble, making an impatient sound in the back of her throat.

"And how did you do that? Punch your way through?" Rumlow asked sarcastically as they continued to follow her into the facility.

 _Yes._ "I used some explosives." She lied. "Now quiet down. We're entering the main facility."

They began to stick closer to their shadows, pressing against walls and darting around corners, taking down the guards that they encountered before anyone could alert the rest. The darker halls gradually lightened as the fluorescent lights above grew stronger and more frequent, forcing the men to turn off their night-vision. They found themselves overlooking the main room of the facility from the crisscrossing metal walkways that hung above the large laboratory. Machines were scattered throughout the room, men in white lab coats scuttling back and forth with files and clipboards in hand. The air was filled with the hum of machinery, the clicking of keyboards, low conversations and scribbling of pens.

Men with guns and dressed in plain camo uniforms were placed at even intervals at the edges of the room, watching the scientists with sharp eyes. There seemed to be a main office at the opposite end of the room, up the stairs and separated by panes of glass. Within it were two men in suits, one talking to a scientist, the other on the phone, both holding themselves like most rich and dirty businessmen did.

"We kill everyone." Rumlow's voice sounded in her ear through the comms. He turned to face her, pulling his goggles up to rest on his head as he eyed her. "Ya have a problem with that, girly?"

She raised a brow at that. "Why would I?"

A bloodthirsty grin slipped onto his expression. Rumlow was about to give the hand-sign to attack, but Vera must have guessed what he was going to do and caught his arm. He glared at her with an annoyed look.

" _What_?" He hissed.

"You aren't seriously going to just shoot everything up?" She asked him with narrowed eyes. "We don't know if there are unstable chemicals in here. I don't want things blowing up!"

The slight widening of his eyes told her that he hadn't thought of that. Vera made a disgusted sound at his idiocy and then growled, "Wait here. I'll go scope out what kind of shit they've got in here."

 _He was gonna get us all blown up or radioactive that_ _ **doorak**_ _*!_ She thought furiously as she darted to the nearest stairwell and slipped to the lower floors, trying to get a read on the chemical labels on the various containers.

It didn't help that they were all in Arabic. As a major language in the world, the Red Room certainly made sure that all of its graduates were fluent in it. Vera had plenty of practice with the language, but it was still a language she was not fond of. It was just… not a pretty language. Not that Russian was any better.

 _Gas, kerosene, not surprising… ethanol, uranium – shit!_ Vera inwardly cursed as she noticed the chemical names veering into the radioactive area. She pulled out another Red Room gadget – something akin to a monocle that could zoom in digitally. Holding the monocle-like machine to her eye, Vera used it to zoom into the papers on the scientists' desks.

 _Bio-chemicals, nuclear weapons…_ Vera shook her head. _This whole place is one giant mushroom cloud waiting to happen._ Once again, she felt the urge to smack Rumlow for his brash idiocy.

"Nuclear and bio-chemicals." Vera deadpanned as she returned to the team. Rumlow's face darkened with a hint of red as his team paled. Yeah, good thing she stopped them from rushing in.

"Then we need to do this quickly." Rumlow stated as he began to rearrange his plans. "And keep an eye on every bullet."

"Or at least until we can secure the chemicals." Vera agreed. "We can't just dump that kind of thing anyway."

He nodded, then turned to his men, giving them their newest instructions. Vera was ordered to remain at his side as the team split and began to creep around the walkways above the oblivious lab rats. The new plan was to aim before firing (Vera could not help but roll her eyes at that). The men would each target one of the guards, taking out at least two each in the time it took for their targets to register the attack. By that time the scientists would no doubt duck for cover, and the men in suits in the office would either come out to see the commotion, or hide in their office. Either way, once the guards were taken out, they would have to quickly dispose of every person in the facility.

Several voices sounded across the comms, alerting Rumlow to their position and awaiting the signal. Rumlow caught her eye, and she nodded in return.

"Go."

The calm atmosphere was ruined as bullets rained down on the men below. Vera took out three guards before she shifted her attention to the scientists below, mowing them down while carefully avoiding the chemical tanks around them. The rest of the team dropped down to the ground floor using ropes that they had tied to the railings above, the ropes unfurling simultaneously as they descended.

"Keep them away from their chemicals!" Vera hissed into their link. "We don't need some lab rat getting brave!"

Rumlow descended soon after that, with Vera staying above to keep an eye on the whole picture. Her eyes snapped up to the office area, catching sight of the men in suits as they panicked, began boarding up the doors and windows. Her eyes widened when she saw one of them tip a bookcase and reveal a secret door.

"The office has an escape route!" She growled into the comms as she leapt over the edge of the walkway and caught the rope on the way down, swinging her way down and landing in a roll. "Whoever's closest to it, make an opening! Before they escape!"

She was running across the main lab, stopping once to shoot a scientist that had been playing dead, before continuing forwards with her eyes locked on the office area.

"The doors are reinforced!" One of their men growled in frustration; she guessed it was the one slamming his body against the door.

Vera huffed in annoyance as she joined them, but instead of attacking the door, she went for a weaker material. The glass of the windows shattered with the butt of her gun, and then she punched her hand against the bookcase that was blocking it from the inside, tipping it over.

"Through here!" She snapped, barely restraining herself from commenting at their lack of creativity.

Vera lead the team as she leapt through, finding the office empty. She heard Rumlow swear beside her and across their comms. He took the lead as he rushed through the hidden entrance, Vera and the rest following him.

Luckily for them, the tunnel they were following did not branch off, and lead them straight to the garage where their targets were scrambling into an armored Hummer. The special ops knew better than to shoot at a bullet-proof car, instead splitting up as the men ran forward to break into the car while Vera slipped away to sabotage the garage door, which was already halfway open.

Vera paused in her running to take aim with her rifle, shooting the gears of the garage door on each side. It stalled, but was still open enough for an armored car to barrel through. She heard tires screeching as the team descended on the escape car, and then –

"Look out!" Rumlow's voice yelled out.

She looked up to see headlights zooming towards her.

Vera could do nothing but brace herself.

* * *

 **MUWAHAHAHA! The dreaded cliffhanger!**

 **Be sure to leave a review! The more I get, the faster I update! *wink wink***

 **~Lilithia**


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